


embrace of the sapphire sun

by suheafoams



Category: ONEUS (Band)
Genre: Biting, Frottage, Happy Ending, Implied Oral Sex, M/M, Misunderstandings, Pining, Single Parent AU, Slice of Life, Slow Burn, Tattoos, dad!seoho, editor!seoho, implied bisexuality, mentions of divorce, substitute teacher!geonhak, tattoo artist!geonhak
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-01
Updated: 2020-06-01
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:53:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 83,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24485413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/suheafoams/pseuds/suheafoams
Summary: “We had a substitute teacher today, and he was so much fun,” Hyejoo says excitedly. “He has funny colored hair, too. I can’t tell whether it’s puke green or blue, but it’s pretty.”Seoho snorts. “You didn’t happen to say that to him, did you?”“No, she didn’t,” an unfamiliar, deep voice says in amusement, and Seoho turns to find a man dressed in a leather jacket and black jeans smiling at him. Almost every part of his face runs angular save for the playful curve of his eyes that makes him look… sweet, and Seoho dismisses that thought as easily as he does to all the other ones in his head he finds unnecessary.
Relationships: Kim Geonhak | Leedo/Lee Seoho
Comments: 191
Kudos: 515





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> (rubs temples) its me again hi 
> 
> seoho and geonhak have seriously stolen my heart but i didnt realize i was 80k-words-in-love with them and this is a project written with much love that grew way beyond my expectations in terms of length. please treat my baby gently, this is the longest fic ive ever written and i really never expected to write anything of this magnitude in my life...esp not in a month... lmao 
> 
> i hope that this story can offer a little bit of comfort and escape for those of you who do take the time to read this monster. there will probably be a few (or many) typos but i am merely one cat at a typewriter so please forgive me~ 
> 
> pls consider leaving comments on any part of the story/multiple times if you're enjoying reading!

✧ ✧ ✧

The air in the coffee shop is stifling. 

Seoho doesn’t know whether it’s the lack of circulation, the shop being more crowded than usual, or simply because he’s wearing too many layers, and he pulls impatiently at the collar of his turtleneck so he can avoid feeling so flushed as he waits for his coffee. He would take his jacket off, but he has no free hands right now. 

“Can you make it to the 9 am meeting tomorrow?” Yoonjung asks, after mumbling for a good two minutes while typing haphazardly on her keyboard. She’s mentioned before that she’s an expert at multitasking, but Seoho thinks it’s an euphemism for excelling at wasting other people’s time. 

“I have to send my daughter to school during that time so I can’t be in the office. I’ve told you that before.” 

“She’s old enough to go to school by herself now, no?” Yoonjung asks. “Or you can find another parent in your neighborhood to walk her to school along with their child.” 

Seoho sighs quietly, squeezing his phone between his shoulder and cheek so that it doesn’t slip as he picks up his third coffee of the day. He mouths _thank you_ to the barista who’d made it for him, having come here often enough that she recognizes him now, and she smiles at him briefly before he leaves the cafe. “If you really need me, I can tune in via a voice call.” 

“You know that’s not the same, Seoho,” she sighs, like she’s a saint for preparing to explain her point to him. “You’d have been promoted a long time ago if you were only willing to hire someone to take care of her instead of trying to do it all yourself. You’d have to take off less time from work that way, and then you’d be able to attend more meetings—” 

“I’ll try my best to make it in person,” he tells her, knowing very well he won’t, and hangs up before she deviates into invasive advice territory, like getting _remarried_ for the sake of his daughter. As if marrying someone based on the expectation that they’d take care of Hyejoo for him was all that mattered in a relationship. 

Things could be worse. That’s what Seoho always tells himself, so that he doesn’t lose his mind just trying to do his job. Yoonjung sees enough potential and competence in Seoho that she hasn’t fired him yet, although she continues to hold grudges towards all the employees who can’t make all in-person meetings. 

It never ceases to surprise him how hypercritical people are of decisions and lifestyles that don’t completely align with their personal morals, conveniently blind to the damage they might be inflicting when they want to evaluate the lives of people they have no business judging in the first place. 

Seoho shakes his head, hoping that it’ll dismantle the lingering irritation that he always gets after a call with his boss, and he makes a mental checklist of the tasks he still has to get done before tomorrow morning. His brain goes a little blank after the sixth bullet point, and he decides that he’ll organize his thoughts later, after he picks Hyejoo up from school. 

✧ ✧ ✧

There’s a wide smile on Hyejoo’s face as she runs over to where Seoho’s waiting for her outside of the classroom, and Seoho slides his phone in his back pocket before he squats down and prepares for his daughter to charge into his arms. 

“Did something good happen?” Seoho asks, moving his face slightly so that Hyejoo’s flyaway hairs aren’t tickling his jaw as much. Hyejoo’s generally good-natured all around, but he can tell she’s more cheerful than usual. 

“We had a substitute teacher today, and he was so much fun,” Hyejoo says excitedly. “He has funny colored hair, too. I can’t tell whether it’s puke green or blue, but it’s pretty.” 

Seoho snorts. “You didn’t happen to say that to him, did you?” 

“No, she didn’t,” an unfamiliar, deep voice says in amusement, and Seoho turns to find a man dressed in a leather jacket and black jeans smiling at him. Almost every part of his face runs angular save for the playful curve of his eyes that makes him look… sweet, and Seoho dismisses that thought as easily as he does to all the other ones in his head he finds unnecessary. 

Seoho understands what Hyejoo was talking about as soon as he sees the man’s hair, which appears to have been originally dyed some shade of teal before it faded into a grayish-olive green, although Seoho would have never assumed the man was the substitute teacher just by looking at the rest of him. There’s a hint of a tattoo, intricate petals and leaves, peeking out of the man’s turtleneck, too, and Seoho would raise his eyebrows if he weren’t so accustomed to concealing his own reactions after being on the receiving end of judgement so often. 

Not like Seoho’s in much of a position to judge anyone else. He prefers not to mingle with the other parents, who tend to be a little older than him and are usually still _married_ , wary of the curious glances he can feel and the questions he can hear before they’ve even left people’s mouths. Seoho’s tired of smiling at people who don’t understand him but somehow think they know what’s best for his daughter, and it’s easier to put up a polite wall before people with misdirected concern can poke and prod at him until he feels like he’s going to break. 

“Mr. Kim,” Hyejoo says, arms still wrapped around Seoho’s neck. “Will you be teaching us tomorrow?” 

“I think so,” the man, Mr. Kim, says. His smile shifts a little bit when it’s directed at Hyejoo, but it’s not any less genuine or soft. “Although you should be praying for your teacher’s speedy recovery so that she can come back soon~” 

“I am,” Hyejoo says, nodding. 

“You must be Hyejoo’s father.” The smile shifts again, into something more curious, perceptive, and Seoho blinks a few times as the man introduces himself. “I’m Geonhak. I’m substituting for a few days since Ms. Greene is sick.” 

“Nice to meet you, Geonhak,” Seoho says, extending a hand to shake Geonhak’s outstretched one. When Geonhak finally lets go, Seoho’s left with a buzz in his hand that doesn’t disappear even when he drops it to his side and wiggles his fingers. “I’m Seoho.” 

“Noted,” Geonhak says, raising his eyebrows in a way that would irritate Seoho if it were coming from anyone else but from Geonhak, just leaves uncomfortable heat crawling up the back of Seoho’s neck. In turn, Seoho puts on a mask of polite indifference with the type of smile that he knows doesn’t reach his eyes, hoping that if he pretends to be unaffected long enough, the flame of interest curling at the pit of his stomach will be extinguished for good. 

He can tell Geonhak catalogues the reaction, even if he’s polite and lets Seoho go for the time being with a soft goodbye and brief touch on the arm. 

Seoho doesn’t have time to linger on it for long, not when there’s more important things to worry about, including dinner and Hyejoo’s homework and the thirty page first draft he needs to look through sooner than later for the new writer he’s been assigned to. 

Hyejoo asks him to blow dry her hair when she gets out of the shower, the large fluffy towel around her shoulders appearing like a thick shawl that swallows her up adorably. After plugging in the hairdryer she’s brought to him and putting aside his stack of papers, Seoho pulls her into his lap and turns the hair dryer on medium heat, making sure to hold it far enough from her scalp that she only feels a comfortable warmth while he runs his fingers through her hair to dry the sections faster. 

She falls asleep in his arms, as always, and when her hair is no longer damp and mostly dry, Seoho carries her into her room and tucks her into bed. 

“Daddy,” Hyejoo mumbles, just as Seoho’s about to turn off her lights. “Are you going to bed, too?” 

“Yes,” Seoho says, even as he considers the work that’s better off being completed sometime between now and tomorrow morning. “Soon, at least.” 

Hyejoo tells him goodnight, curling in on her side as she snuggles into her pillow, and Seoho idly wonders if there’s ever going to be a day where he doesn’t feel like he’s stuck running in place, exhausted from all that he does and yet never moving forward. 

✧ ✧ ✧ 

Geonhak substitutes for Hyejoo’s class for another two days. 

Seoho keeps his distance the second day, waits for Hyejoo to run to him with her pigtails bouncing and her first story about her day halfway out of her mouth before she even reaches him. A group of younger mothers draw Geonhak into conversation, and Seoho only watches the exchange for a few moments before Hyejoo’s impatiently tugging him in the direction of home, asking him if they still have rainbow tapioca pearls in their cupboards because she wants his homemade milk tea as an after school snack. 

Seoho intends to keep his distance the third day just the same.

Except Geonhak has different plans, because when the ever familiar bell rings at 2:48 in the afternoon, he makes a slow but intent beeline for Seoho, Hyejoo holding onto his hand with her free hand clutching at one of her red plaid backpack straps. 

There’s an energetic bounce to her step that means it’s been another good day, and Seoho’s conflicted. He can’t say he’s against someone who manages to make school an even better experience for Hyejoo than what it already is, but he’s got personal hurdles to clear before he can be entirely comfortable around Geonhak even if Geonhak hasn’t done anything wrong. 

“Seoho,” Geonhak says. He smiles at Hyejoo as she lets go of his hand and leans against Seoho’s hip. “I didn’t get a chance to talk to you yesterday. How are you?” 

“Fine,” Seoho says curtly. He picks up on the way Geonhak’s face falls, ever so slightly, and mentally sighs before plastering a cordial smile on his face. “How are you?” 

“I’m good,” Geonhak says. His face immediately brightens, making him resemble a puppy who’s been tossed the smallest of bones and treasures it anyway. “Hyejoo has been lovely to teach.” 

“I’m sure you’re a big part of the reason behind that,” Seoho says faintly, and Geonhak beams at him. 

Yesterday, Geonhak had been dressed in a mint v-neck with white jeans, and today, it’s a white hoodie under a blazer and light wash jeans. Seoho doubts the kids were affected by the abrupt change in style, but the gossipy mothers must be having a field day at the unexpected image of Geonhak dressing more classroom friendly. 

“I got the call to sub for Ms. Greene last minute on Monday,” Geonhak explains easily, when he realizes he’s being observed. His lips, small but full, curl into a smile tinged with uncertainty. “This isn’t my main job, so I was headed to work in my normal attire. Do you think it looks weird?”

He’s fishing, Seoho realizes a few seconds after the question sinks in along with the expectant look on Geonhak’s face, but Hyejoo, the absolute angel that she is, comes to Seoho’s rescue with an enthusiastic: “You look handsome no matter what you’re wearing, Mr. Kim!” 

“Thank you,” Geonhak says, smiling wide and bright at her compliment before he winks at her. “I should get back to the classroom or else they’ll figure out who my favorite is, okay?” 

“Okay,” Hyejoo whispers happily, and Seoho surveys Geonhak carefully before Geonhak’s looking back up at him, gaze crawling up slower than Seoho would like. 

“I like the suit, by the way,” Geonhak remarks, with a hum that borders on approving. “Something special for work?” 

“We had a press conference of sorts today,” Seoho says. He doesn’t suffer from stage fright like some of his colleagues do, so being in front of cameras hadn’t been particularly difficult, but the fatigue tends to catch up with him a few hours after everything’s been said and done. “Nothing wild.” 

Geonhak looks like he wants to say more, but a flurry of distressed _Mr. Kims_ can be heard from inside of the classroom, and he excuses himself quickly to tend to the trouble brewing inside with a brief smile and goodbye. 

“Do you not like Mr. Kim?” Hyejoo asks Seoho on the way home, when it’s just the two of them. Hyejoo’s backpack is as light as a feather hanging off of Seoho’s shoulder, and he lifts his hand accordingly to let Hyejoo skip to the rhythm her heart desires. 

“Why do you think that?” 

“You smile at him the same way you smile at Wendy’s mom, like you’re being fed something sour,” Hyejoo says, and Seoho laughs. Wendy’s mom is not a favorite face of Seoho’s, but he dreads Geonhak’s presence for different reasons, even if he can’t explain that in a way to Hyejoo that makes sense and remains honest without digging up feelings he’d much rather bury for good. “But Mr. Kim is so much nicer. He taught us how to fold origami cranes today, and he gave me a cat sticker because my folds were ‘clean and straight’.” 

“Did he?” Seoho says with a hum. “That’s nice.” 

“He also gave me a moon sticker when I got upset that Joshua was copying my work,” Hyejoo says. “Ms. Greene just tells me that being copied means I’m admired, but Mr. Kim told me he understood how I felt and to please be patient with Joshua while he learned how to come up with ideas on his own.” 

“Did that make you feel better than what Ms. Greene says?” 

“Yes,” Hyejoo says. “Ms. Greene usually tells me that I’m being stingy, and I don’t like being told that because I worked hard to think of new ideas on my own.” 

“Of course,” Seoho agrees. 

“But Mr. Kim told me he understood,” Hyejoo says. She’s been kicking at a pebble for several strides now, making sure to do so in as straight of a line as possible so that she doesn’t have to let go of Seoho’s hand and also making sure to avoid scuffing the soles of her shoes. “And when one of my pigtails came loose, he fixed it for me.” 

“Really?” 

It’s not difficult to imagine Geonhak doing something like that when Seoho’s seen the fond smiles Geonhak gives the children as they wave goodbye to him before running off to their waiting parents, the endless patience in his features when he’s mobbed by several small children at once that even full-time teachers don’t have. Closer inspection of Hyejoo’s hair, however, does make Seoho wonder how a man with such large hands manages such delicate work. 

“He tied your hair very well,” Seoho says evenly. It’s easier and smarter, to not give into the curiosity. “Very kind of him.” 

“So you should like him, too, Daddy,” Hyejoo urges Seoho. 

“I like him just fine,” Seoho reassures her, not having the heart to explain to her that the issue doesn’t lie in whether he likes Geonhak, but in the trouble of how _much._

✧ ✧ ✧ 

Seoho’s coping mechanisms haven’t changed much in the last decade, despite everything he’s been through. He either drinks too much coffee, conveniently forgets to reply to messages, or throws himself into his work without much regard for anything else. 

That’s what he’d done after the divorce. It’d been easier to let the raw, unpleasant feelings simmer on the backburner while focusing on giving Hyejoo all the support he could possibly offer as a single parent, even if he’d felt like crumbling every time he’d had a free moment and the silence had him inevitably remembering memories and stilted conversations he hadn’t wanted to revisit. Despite maintaining a brave face so that Hyejoo could adjust without any sensing any hesitation or helplessness on his part, Seoho had slowly gone from being easy going to heavily withdrawn, absentminded in the moments where he used to seek out ways to brighten the atmosphere for everyone else. 

Sometimes, though, Seoho wants a tangible distraction. 

Which is how he ends up standing in front of a tattoo parlor that also does piercings during his lunch break instead of being a normal person and getting...well, _lunch._ He’d had a snack an hour ago, though, so he should be fine. 

The shop is narrow in width, but reveals more depth once he enters, a characteristic shared by most of the businesses downtown because of the way square footage has been allotted throughout the years in this part of the city. The little bell by the door rings to make his presence known to whoever runs the shop, and a few moments later, a delicate looking man comes out from one of the back doors. 

His face is framed by fiery orange hair, a light wash of makeup over his features that matches it in tone, and a bored expression that isn’t all too uncommon in workers at shops like this one. “Here for a tattoo or piercing?” 

His voice is velvety, with more weight to it than Seoho expects, and when he tilts his head, the initial coldness in his attitude melts down into something more friendly. 

“Piercing,” Seoho says, then thinks about it. “Or two.” 

“Okay,” the man says, grabbing a clipboard and sliding a sheet of printed paper under the clip. “I’m going to need you to fill out some paperwork, just the highlighted areas, and then you can tell me what you’re interested in getting. General prices for types of piercings, jewelry, and aftercare are listed on the form, but I’ll most likely undercharge you because our receptionist isn’t here today.” 

“Ah,” Seoho says. The man isn’t hostile at all, once he starts talking more. “Are you the piercer?” 

“Yes~” the man replies. “I’m Xion. I work most days except for Fridays.” 

The process is straightforward. Xion scans Seoho’s ID and completed forms for their shop’s records, then has Seoho pick out the jewelry he wants before he sits Seoho down in the small, well lit room right behind the reception counter. He’s quiet and efficient, briefly explaining his steps to be transparent, although it’s been too long since Seoho’s last piercing for him to make an accurate comparison between Xion and other piercers he’s had before. 

Just as Xion’s finishing up and cleaning the marking dots and minimal blood off of Seoho’s ear, the bell at the front entrance rings, indicating someone’s arrival. 

“Dongju,” a vaguely familiar voice calls out, and Seoho frowns. “I brought you your food, brat.” 

“Leave it on the counter, Geonhak, thank you,” Xion replies. The confirmation of who Seoho had thought he’d heard has him raising his eyebrows, but Xion interprets it as Seoho being confused at the disparity in the name Xion had introduced himself as and the name Geonhak had referred to him by, so he explains. “Dongju’s my real name. Xion’s for business~” 

Seoho laughs lightly. “So which do I use, if I know both?” 

“Whichever you’d like,” Xion says. 

“Do you have a client—” Geonhak sticks his head in, eyes widening when he sees Seoho. His blue-green hair is styled up and out of his face, revealing an undercut Seoho hadn’t been aware of before. He’s wearing a chunky sweater with wavy stripes, sleeves rolled up to the elbow and both forearms covered in inky sleeves of flowers, animals, and various insects woven around each other strategically. “Seoho?”

Seoho’s eyes snap up at the sound of his name. 

Xion makes a contemplative noise at the recognition in Geonhaks voice. “...You know each other?” 

“I subbed for Seoho’s daughter’s class last week,” Geonhak says, and Xion nods in understanding, face angled in a direction that leaves Seoho unable to see whether he visibly reacts to the new knowledge. 

“Do you work here?” Seoho asks Geonhak. 

“Yeah, I’m the tattoo artist for this shop,” Geonhak says. “This is my main job, but I didn’t mention specifics at the elementary school because I know how some people are about tattoos.” 

”Yeah, I get that,” Seoho says. He doesn’t think it’s much, but Geonhak smiles gratefully at him, and Seoho looks down. 

“How old is she?” Xion asks, turning to Seoho. “Your daughter.” 

“Eight,” Seoho says. “She turns nine in May.” Some part of Seoho expects Xion to ask questions because it’s the logical next step for most people, to prod for more information or make polite small talk out of genuine, well-intentioned interest. 

Instead, Xion hands Seoho a mirror to check his new piercings. “You’re all done so you can come around the counter to pay. I’ll give you our spray for free, Seoho, because Geonhak knows you and also because you’re handsome.” He pauses, then grins. “Is your daughter as cute as you are? I’m curious.” 

“Don’t flirt with Seoho,” Geonhak says, mildly, and Xion raises his eyebrows as if to question Geonhak’s order. “He’s married.”

“Right,” Xion says, looking a little chastised, like he’d forgotten about what Seoho having a daughter means, and Seoho laughs. 

“I’m not,” Seoho says, for clarification, and both of them turn to look at him. “Not married.” 

There’s only a beat of silence, Geonhak’s eyes widening slowly before Xion destroys whatever tension might have formed in those few seconds. 

“So I _am_ allowed to flirt,” Xion concludes gleefully the same time Geonhak lets out a half horrified _what? No, Dongju—_

“Well, I’m flattered,” Seoho says, before he adds, “although I’ll just consider it as part of your good customer service.” 

“Ooh, I see how it is,” Xion hums, with no real bite in his voice. “Your total’s $79.45, Ice Prince.”

Geonhak lingers near Seoho even after Xion has retreated into the back room with his takeout lunch. He’s close enough now that Seoho can smell hints of his cologne, which Seoho pointedly ignores in favor of preparing for whatever Geonhak has been itching to say. _Why aren’t you married, what happened with your wife, how do you take care if Hyejoo if it’s just you—_

“I would have gotten you something to eat if I’d known you were here,” Geonhak says, and that’s… definitely not what Seoho had expected as the first thing to come out of his mouth. 

“No need,” Seoho replies. “This was an impulsive visit anyways.” 

“Impulsive?” Geonhak echoes. He shifts his weight from one hip to the other. “From what I’ve seen so far, you don’t seem like someone who does anything impulsive.” 

Geonhak isn’t… wrong. Seoho’s only impulsive and reckless about the things that don’t matter. Everything else, in his mind, is a landmine waiting to be set off if he’s not careful about avoiding them, but he’s not inclined to share that. 

“And yet, I’ve made a last minute decision to punch two holes in my ear on a lunch break that’s ending pretty soon,” Seoho says, which makes Geonhak chuckle. 

“Suits you,” Geonhak murmurs, leaning forward to get a better look at the double helix piercing on Seoho’s ear. His hand brushes the nape of Seoho’s neck, and Seoho shivers. “It’s pretty.” 

“Thank you,” Seoho says, as he takes a step back. 

“Since you’re on an impulsive streak, do you want a tattoo as well?” Geonhak asks, corner of his mouth pulling upwards. He moves back too, like he’s noticed Seoho needs it, and he’s smiling in a way that’s reminiscent of the one he’d given Seoho when they’d met for the first time. “I don’t have any appointments right now.” 

“I’m good for today,” Seoho says. He hadn’t noticed it at first, but Geonhak’s voice is even deeper than it had been when Seoho had talked to him outside of Hyejoo’s classroom, and Seoho doesn’t think it’s his imagination playing tricks on him. “Did your voice change?” 

“Ah. I speak in a softer voice when I’m with kids,” Geonhak explains. The tips of his ears go a little pink, and Seoho tries his best not to find it endearing. There’s nothing endearing about a man who’s all broad planes and hard edges, even if he teaches children how to fold origami cranes and fixes their hair and smiles all boyish whenever he’s genuinely delighted by something he’s heard. Seoho crumples the attraction he can feel building in his chest into a little paper ball and tosses it somewhere in the back of his mind for another day. “I want them to feel safe with me, so…” 

“That’s…” Seoho starts, before he cuts himself off so he doesn’t say something along the lines of _cute_. “How does a tattoo artist pick up substitute teaching on the side? I can’t imagine the qualifications overlap much.”

Geonhak smiles thinly at him, and Seoho chews on his lower lip, unsure as to whether he’s said anything wrong. “I have a bit of experience studying child education. That was my original career path before I became a tattoo artist.” 

Seoho hums, and Geonhak shoves his hands in his pockets before he asks, “Can I know what you do for work? Seeing as you know two of my jobs, and I know nothing about yours.” 

“Nothing special,” Seoho says, and Geonhak gives him a doubtful look. Seoho would have sought out more details about Geonhak’s work considering he’s never as averse to learning new things about other fields as he is to talking about himself, but he was probably too optimistic in hoping that silence would discourage Geonhak from continuing the conversation. “You make it sound like you have more than two jobs.” 

“I could,” Geonhak says, raising his eyebrows teasingly. “Maybe I’ll tell you about them if you give me your phone number and drop by again sometime when I’m working, Seoho.” 

“You say that like your shop’s a restaurant,” Seoho says before he can resist it, and surprise floods Geonhak’s features for a moment before he laughs. “It’s not like I’ll be needing more piercings anytime soon.” 

“Then, a tattoo,” Geonhak says. “Problem solved.” 

Seoho hates that he can see himself falling into an easy back and forth with Geonhak, because superficial attraction, he can handle and let simmer without doing anything about it, but ignoring anything more substantial than that is going to be like trying to crawl out of a well. 

“Sure,” Seoho says noncommittally. “I’ll come by.” 

Geonhak catches on to the lack of sincerity in the casual promise immediately. “Don’t shut off on me, Seoho,” he says, pulling at the thinner sleeves of his black turtleneck so that they’re showing underneath the sleeves of his striped sweater. "Is it this difficult to get to know you better?” 

“I’m not…” Seoho starts, then stops. Geonhak doesn’t stand to benefit from investing time and emotions in someone like Seoho, who likens himself to a plant that chooses to stubbornly die even under the most tender of care, and Seoho has other things to focus on, like trying to take care of Hyejoo as much as possible without having his work suffer even as they keep giving him new authors to manage and projects to supervise. 

And even if Seoho wasn’t so busy, he’s in no way obligated to offer a specific reason for why he doesn’t want Geonhak to get close. He knows what it looks like when someone’s interested in him regardless of their motives, typically doesn’t pay attention to anyone’s attempts to build a bridge with him even if it means offending a few people in the process. 

But Geonhak keeps _looking_ at him, with the gaze of a puppy who’s okay with getting kicked around a little bit if it means he’s awarded with love in the end, and Seoho doesn’t have the courage to tell Geonhak that he’s keeping Geonhak at arm’s length more out of self-preservation rather than out of any genuine animosity towards Geonhak. 

“Give me your phone,” he says, instead, and Geonhak pulls his phone out of his shirt pocket to hand it over. 

Seoho calls himself, waiting for the call to go through before he ends it and returns Geonhak’s phone. “That’s my number.” He pauses for a moment. “I can’t make any promises for how much I’ll be able to keep in touch. I’m not good at replying to messages.” 

“What about calls?” Geonhak asks, tilting his head. 

“Those are fine,” Seoho says. “I’ll pick up if I can make the time.” 

Geonhak pouts a little, but he seems satisfied with that answer. “Fair enough.” 

Then a customer enters the shop, a woman appearing to be in her late twenties who’s made an appointment for a consultation with Geonhak for a potential tattoo, and Seoho takes the opportunity to head back to work. Geonhak follows him to the door, telling Seoho to be careful, and while Seoho tries to quicken his steps so that the fifteen minute walk to his office somehow consolidates into an eight minute one, he realizes that it’s been a long time since he’s had anyone other than Hyejoo telling him to be careful. 

✧ ✧ ✧ 

To his surprise, Seoho doesn’t end up completely regretting giving his number to Geonhak. 

He’s not sure whether Geonhak’s the type to naturally prefer sending photos over using words with all of his friends, but Geonhak takes to messaging Seoho pictures of flowers and animals he spots on his commute to work, punctuated by the appropriate emojis carefully chosen to match the mood of each photo. 

“Daddy,” Hyejoo says, sliding over to sit next to him on the long bench at the dining table after she’s come out to twist all the vertical blinds on their windows closed, so that no one can see them from the outside now that the sun has set. She’s got a lock of hair hanging in front of her face, and Seoho tucks it behind her ear so he can see her face more clearly. 

“Hmm?”

“Who are you talking to?” 

“Sorry,” Seoho says. “I shouldn’t be on my phone. Were you trying to tell me something?” 

“Not really,” Hyejoo says. “But who is it?” 

Seoho glances at his phone screen where Geonhak’s name is clearly written at the top of the messaging app. Hyejoo knows not to look at anyone’s screen without their permission, so she’s not going to try and sneak a peek if he doesn’t tell her, although the thought of lying about it doesn’t make him feel any better either. 

“A friend,” he replies, eventually, and she sticks her lower lip out, clearly disappointed with his vague answer. 

“I can’t know who it is?” she asks. “You keep smiling at your phone. You used to never do that, not even when mommy was around.” 

Seoho runs a hand through his hair. Hyejoo has a knack for pointing out the very things that he finds difficult to admit or acknowledge, although it’d been hard for him to ignore, too, the fact that he’s so much more willing to respond to messages now if they’re from the right person. 

“I’ve been talking to Geonhak,” he says, and Hyejoo blinks a few times before the name finally processes in her mind. 

“Mr. Kim?” she exclaims. “I thought you didn’t like him!” 

“I never said I didn’t like him,” Seoho says in exasperation. 

“You didn’t have to,” Hyejoo says, almost snidely, and Seoho laughs, accepting defeat. “When did you see him?” 

“I happened to run into him during my lunch break maybe a week ago,” Seoho says. “By accident.” 

“I want to talk to him too,” Hyejoo says. “Not fair.” 

Seoho wants to indulge her, he really does, but he also knows that she might not have as much of a filter as he needs her to. “Don’t talk about embarrassing things, and I’ll let you,” he says, and she nods vigorously. 

_How do you feel about Hyejoo talking to you for a bit?_ he types, hitting send before he can overthink it. _She probably won’t let me live if I don’t at least ask you if you’re free._

 _I’m free~_ is Geonhak’s reply, and moments later, there’s an incoming call from him. 

“Mr. Kim’s calling now,” Seoho says. 

“Mr. Kim!” Hyejoo all but bellows when their lines are connected, and Seoho can hear Geonhak’s amused chuckle even before he’s turned speakerphone on. “Are you friends with Daddy now?” 

“ _Hyejoo,_ ” Seoho hisses, and his daughter sticks her tongue out at him. 

“I would hope so,” Geonhak says. He’s put on his gentler voice, and Seoho’s heart twists at how much softer Geonhak sounds now that he’s learned to recognize the difference. “What’s your dad’s answer?” 

“He wouldn’t tell me that he was messaging you,” Hyejoo says, “but he’s been smiling at his phone when he used to only frown at it, so I think the answer’s yes.” 

Seoho holds his head in his hands as Geonhak laughs in delight, rich and deep through the phone speakers even if the audio’s a little crackly. Seoho will always consider Hyejoo one of the biggest blessings in his life, but it’s hard to agree with that sentiment right now when she keeps poking holes in his armor. 

“I smile at my phone when I’m talking to him, too,” Geonhak says, which doesn’t do anything to stop the loud rush of blood Seoho can hear in his own ears. 

“Ohhh,” Hyejoo says, though it’s probably more in reaction to Seoho’s contorted facial expression than what Geonhak has said. 

“Where’s your dad, by the way?” Geonhak asks, and Seoho shakes his head frantically at Hyejoo in warning. 

“He went… away for a bit,” Hyejoo says, cooperating for once. “Why? Did you want to talk to him?” 

“Yes, but I like talking to you just as much, Hyejoo,” Geonhak says. “How has school been?” 

“I like Ms. Greene just fine, but I like you more,” Hyejoo says. “Do you think you’ll ever teach an actual class and not just substitute, Mr. Kim?” 

“Probably not,” Geonhak answers. “Substituting is just a side job for me, not my main one.” 

“Oh? What’s your main job?” Hyejoo asks. 

Geonhak hums, deliberating. “Ask your dad to explain to you.” 

Hyejoo furrows her brow. “Daddy knows what you do for work?” 

“Yes,” Geonhak replies. “That’s where we met, actually.” 

Hyejoo sounds forlorn as she asks, “...Without me?” 

“It wasn’t planned, Hyejoo,” Geonhak says, sweetly, and Seoho can see the irritation visibly seep out of Hyejoo. Hyejoo has never warmed up to any adult the way she’s warmed up to Geonhak, and Seoho would be inclined to believe Geonhak’s using black magic if he weren’t so... susceptible to Geonhak’s general charm himself. “If your dad’s okay with it, I’d love for you two to come visit me. Maybe we can go out for a meal afterwards~”

“I’ll make him okay with it,” Hyejoo says, before her thinking-very-hard face takes over. That can only mean more trouble for Seoho. “You know, Daddy only has one job and he barely sleeps.” 

“Is that so?” Geonhak makes a hum that Seoho can only interpret as thoughtful, before he continues with, “It’s probably because he’s doing his best to take care of you and work at the same time. I don’t know if I’d be able to raise a daughter as lovely as you if I were him.” 

“Daddy’s blushing because he heard that,” Hyejoo says, unhelpfully, and Seoho regrets all the pranks he’s ever played on her because she’s paying it back tenfold through one simple phone call. 

“That’s enough from you, chipmunk,” Seoho says, tickling Hyejoo on her side so that she can only giggle instead of get more words out and expose him in unnecessary ways to a Geonhak who doesn’t need to hear any of it. 

“I’m so sorry for the chaos,” Seoho says, after he’s wrangled a wily Hyejoo onto the couch and forced her to stay there while he attempts to do damage control. He turns off speakerphone so that Hyejoo can’t hear what Geonhak’s saying, not that it really matters at this point. “Don’t mind what she said, please.” 

“It was true, though, right?” Geonhak asks. He’s reverted to his normal speaking voice, though it doesn’t make him sound any less concerned. “The fact that you don’t sleep much. Kids don’t lie about that stuff, especially not Hyejoo.” 

“I sleep enough, don’t worry,” Seoho says, and he thinks Geonhak makes a noise of disapproval at the obvious lie. “Thank you for humoring her. She’s very… attached to you.” 

“She’s a delight, as is her father,” Geonhak replies, sweetly. Seoho tries not to pay attention to the second half of that statement. “Will you bring her to visit? I’ll treat both of you to lunch or dinner, if you’re willing.” 

Given the choice, Seoho would politely decline and avoid stepping within a mile radius of Geonhak’s tattoo parlor for the next sixth months at the very least, but his biggest mistake was letting this phone call happen because now he’s going against two people instead of just one, and he’d do anything within his power to make Hyejoo happy as long as it’s something reasonable.

“I don’t think I have a choice, honestly,” Seoho says, which elicits another laugh from Geonhak. “You could probably hear how disappointed she was to be excluded from seeing you again, even if we were just bumping into each other.”

“I didn’t think it was possible to like her anymore than I already did,” Geonhak says. “But I’ve been pleasantly surprised today.” 

“Why is that?” 

“I think I’ll be seeing you a lot more because of her,” Geonhak says, and as Seoho watches Hyejoo squirm on the couch, impatient to be excused from her temporary punishment, he realizes Geonhak is right, though Geonhak’s words also imply _he_ wants to see Seoho. “You’re eager to make her happy.” 

“Wouldn’t any dad be?” 

“You’d be surprised.” There’s a brief pause, before Geonhak clears his throat. “I won’t take up anymore of your evening, Seoho, seeing as you need all the rest you can get. Tell Hyejoo I hope she has sweet dreams.” 

“No sweet dream wishes for me?” Seoho jokes. 

“You’re…” Geonhak trails off, before picking the sentence up and trying again. “You’re unexpectedly smooth with your words, for someone who initially seemed against the mere concept of conversation. Though I’d already noticed, too, when you were talking to Xion.” 

“I’m an editor,” Seoho says, “so I should hope to be good with words at the bare minimum.” 

An admission of information Seoho had originally planned on keeping to himself. Geonhak makes a quiet hum, as if considering the right thing to say. “Is this you opening up to me, Seoho?” 

“Is it?” Seoho says, and Geonhak laughs. 

“Didn’t know if you were the type to want dreams that are sweet, anyways,” Geonhak says. His voice goes a little darker at the edges, and Seoho has to resist the urge to toss his phone somewhere far away. “I hope you get some solid _sleep_ , though, which I think is more important for you.” 

“I’ll try my best, Geonhak,” Seoho says. “Goodnight.” 

✧ ✧ ✧ 

Seoho rarely dreams. 

He prefers not to, seeing as he always wakes up from dreams more fatigued, perturbed by fragmented memories of events that don’t follow any particular timeline or flow into each other in a way that makes sense. 

In the few dreams he does have, one thing remains constant: he’s in a perpetual race against time. Always running in place, throwing himself to the edge of a room with no limits, driven by nothing other than blind desire to escape the borders of whatever’s containing him. 

When he falls asleep after putting Hyejoo to bed, though, Seoho’s unconscious is filled not with black like it usually is, but with blue green strands of hair tickling his forehead, a warm, rough palm sliding up to hold his cheek, and indistinct words mumbled against his neck he can’t make out, only registers flowing over his skin like crushed velvet. 

It leaves a warm and sticky feeling in his chest when he jolts awake with a gasp, and he’s relieved to find himself alone in the darkness after getting a better grasp on his surroundings. 

Hyejoo looks to be asleep when he passes by her room on the way to the bathroom, the even rise and fall of her chest indicating her breaths are deep and undisturbed. 

Splashing cold water on his face does nothing to cool off the way Seoho feels like he’s burning from the inside out, and he stares at his reflection in the mirror for a few seconds before he sighs and grabs his face towel to catch the water droplets still left on his skin. 

✧ ✧ ✧ 

Geonhak’s text comes in just as Seoho’s stepping out of the elevator into the lobby of his company building, dull throb of a headache persisting from all directions. Mind in a slight haze from lack of sleep, Seoho thinks it’s his boss trying to reschedule something yet again, and he stops walking to stare at the un-Yoonjung-like invitation for a moment before he realizes who it’s from. 

_Wanna drop by the shop during your lunch break if you’re in the area? I’ll treat you to a meal._ Along with it, Geonhak has sent a picture of a German Shepherd puppy with large, droopy ears and pleading eyes, and Seoho stares at the expanded image on his screen for a whole minute. 

It’s stupid, that Seoho barely knows Geonhak and can still read that message in Geonhak’s voice near perfectly in his head, the coarse yet dense sound of it settling deep into Seoho’s bones and making a home out of the osseous matter there. Like a song that takes him off guard on the first listen but chases him quietly until he’s humming choppy bits of it in the shower or recreating the tune in his head during a meeting where he really should be paying more attention. 

_No thank you_ , 

or

 _I’ve got something scheduled_ , 

is what Seoho should send back, because there’s no reason for him to be visiting Geonhak’s shop when he’s not in need of a tattoo nor a piercing. He doesn’t like how instinctive it feels to take what little he knows about Geonhak and absorb it near flawlessly into his mind’s database on other people when he discards of most information upon receiving it, and the lack of control makes him nervous enough to sigh at the thought of how much Hyejoo wants to be around Geonhak despite everything else in Seoho being entirely against the idea. Her attachment is the only reason Seoho hasn’t brushed Geonhak off yet, and as long as Hyejoo isn’t around, he’s really better off steering clear of the man who reminds him that there are some things in life Seoho can’t help being drawn to no matter how much he pretends not to be. 

So Seoho isn’t sure what compels his feet to take him in the opposite direction of where he usually heads for lunch, mind going blank as his body shifts into autopilot and navigates him through busy intersections and bustling sidewalks of downtown shops and restaurants. Before he knows it, he’s already standing in front of the shop with dark blue letters that spell out _Sapphire Sun._

When Seoho steps inside, Xion is sitting at the counter and scrolling through his phone with one hand. 

“Welcome...wait, Seoho?” He narrows his eyes, a hint of mauve shadow around the edges today, and when he tilts his head, there’s a pearl-pink shimmer in the inner corners. 

“Hi Xion,” Seoho says. “Is Geonhak in?” 

Xion raises his eyebrows, like he hadn’t expected Seoho to be here for Geonhak. To be fair, Seoho hadn’t expected it either. “Yeah, he is,” Xion says, pointing towards the second floor, “though he has a consultation with someone that’s running a little late so you might have to wait for a bit.” 

He gestures to the row of empty metal stools on the side of the room, a suggestion for Seoho to sit down. 

“That’s no problem,” Seoho says, and does as Xion proposes, although he ends up standing up again to move the stool when Xion beckons for him to move closer to the counter. 

Seoho probably should have given Geonhak a heads up but he figures Geonhak won’t mind too much, that Seoho’s accepted his invitation. This way, Seoho still gets an escape route if his common sense decides to kick back in at any point before Geonhak realizes he’s here, and he takes himself away from the very place he’d warned himself against returning to. 

“I can keep you company instead,” Xion says, and he pouts when Seoho just laughs in response. “Your laugh is cute, but it’s mean.” 

“Mean?” Seoho says. He crosses one leg over the other, hooking the heel of his shoes on the footrest of the stool. “I can’t help the way I sound, now can I?” 

“It’s not the sound,” Xion says. He shuts his eyes like he’s too annoyed to look at Seoho, and from this distance, Seoho can spot the hint of mascara coating his long, straight lashes. It’s a colored one, not black and spidery like the one Seunghee used to use, flecks of it remaining on her cheeks on the days she didn’t have enough energy to wipe off her makeup with full diligence. “It’s the attitude. The timing. The very obvious, _haha you’re cute but I don’t go for your type~_ ” 

Xion reminds Seoho of Jangjun, an employee and old classmate from the marketing department of his company, who Seoho had met in university briefly through a few shared humanities courses. They hadn’t shared the same sentiments towards their business electives, but Jangjun had been pushy about wanting Seoho’s attention despite being in a different major, and that’s probably the only reason they’d ended up staying friendly with each other until even now. Beyond the bit of maturing and mellowing out Jangjun’s personality has undergone throughout the years, the fact remains that he always sounds like he’s flirting even if he doesn’t mean it, and it’s brought him trouble on more than one occasion when that friendliness is directed towards someone too naive to realize it isn’t personal. 

“What would you do if I did?” Seoho asks, and Xion gapes at him, before regaining a fraction of his composure and making a dismissive noise at Seoho’s teasing. 

“I wouldn’t believe you,” Xion says. 

Seoho smiles. “Why not?” 

“You don’t have a type at all,” Xion remarks. His gaze flickers upwards towards the main occupant of the second floor, and Seoho can feel the hairs on the back on his neck rise, slightly. “And even if you did, I think you’d be less into the delicate, pretty ones and more into the dark and handsome type. Preferably with blue hair. Maybe.” 

“What are you...?” Seoho narrows his eyes. _It’s not like that,_ he wants to say, but he doesn’t know if he’ll come across as convincing as he needs to be so he just keeps his lips pursed. 

“Am I right?” 

“No,” Seoho says, and Xion laughs. His voice is always deeper, richer than what Seoho expects to hear, although it’s a smoother finish than Geonhak’s. “Well, you’re right about the first part. No type, for me.” 

“Or no time?” Xion jokes, and even if the playfulness in his smile remains, he frees Seoho from his discomfort by making a segway into a story about the young client who came in today with her mother and grandmother and left with only one ear pierced because she threw a fit in the middle of it and caused a scene for everyone that was in the shop to see. 

“Horrible, really,” Xion says. “No kid has ever let out a blood curdling scream the way she did. You’d think I stabbed her in the heart and twisted the knife, or something.” 

Seoho grimaces just imagining the sound of the scream, Xion’s anecdote making him recall memories of picking Hyejoo up from daycare for the few months before she’d started kindergarten. None of the daycare options in their area had been ideal, but Seoho hadn’t wanted to ask anyone else for help and Hyejoo’s personality had formed enough by then that he hoped whatever potential negative situations she encountered wouldn’t affect her too much. So many of the children were belligerent from the few minutes that Seoho watched them whenever he was waiting for Hyejoo, and even though Hyejoo hadn’t made a single complaint throughout those four months, she’d practically jumped into Seoho’s arms out of relief on the day he told her she wouldn’t have to go back anymore, because she’d be starting elementary school. 

Eventually, the voices from upstairs aren’t so muffled anymore as the consultation seems to have finished, and the words being exchanged start to get louder and clearer as Geonhak and his client approach the top of the stairs. The client is a middle aged woman in a sleeveless shirt and loose cropped jeans, with a colorful array of tattoos visible on her calves, forearms and chest, mixed in with a handful of purely black pieces as well. She says goodbye to him before descending to the first floor, offering polite smiles to both Xion and Seoho as well, although the stars in her eyes fade a little as the distance between her and Geonhak increases and she exits the shop. 

“You have a guest~” Xion calls up to Geonhak, leaning back in his chair and making jazz hands at Seoho. “I kept him hostage so you didn’t lose your chance.” 

_Chance_ , Seoho thinks to himself, curling the end of his tongue underneath the sharp edge of his top front teeth, is something you can only fall back on as an excuse for so long. 

Geonhak’s eyebrows raise. It’s cute, and Seoho hates that he thinks that it’s cute because raising eyebrows isn’t a particularly special trait and Geonhak isn’t particularly special, either, if Seoho can just figure out how to stop paying so much attention to him. Geonhak isn’t even the type to command attention simply by entering a room, not fairylike or ethereal the way Xion is, but he has a slow, sweeter charm that Seoho can feel surrounding him on all sides like a syrup trickling in if he’s not careful enough to avoid it. 

“I didn’t think you’d come,” Geonhak says, pulling on a bomber jacket over his white t-shirt as he makes his way down the last few steps of the stairs. He moves too fast for Seoho to get a good look, but there’s a blur of black ink on both arms, the lines of his various pieces yielding to the contours of the muscles underneath the skin. 

Seoho hadn’t thought he’d come either. And yet. 

“Did you make another respectable tattooed lady consider becoming a cougar?” Xion asks. “Is that why the appointment took so long?” He drags out the last syllable enough for his breath to nearly run out by the time he’s done talking, and Geonhak doesn’t interrupt him even as his expression grows increasingly annoyed. 

“Shut up, Dongju,” Geonhak says, once Xion looks at him triumphantly after holding his breath on the word _long_. “I hate you.” 

“But you can’t kick me out despite your ever growing hatred,” Xion says, pretending to be upset by Geonhak’s declaration. “I pay rent for half this place.”

“I’d be stuck with you even if you weren’t,” Geonhak says, before he redirects his attention back to Seoho. “Hi.” 

“Hey,” Seoho says. 

“You didn’t reply to my message, though,” Geonhak says, brightening up as he gets closer, his pleased smile as feline as it is soft. Seoho’s eyes widen at the visible shift in Geonhak’s energy levels, and he ignores the way Xion watches both of them with interest. “She was getting a bit chatty at the end, and if I knew you were waiting I would have avoided letting you wait.” 

“It’s okay. I had a quick errand to run, so I forgot to let you know,” Seoho lies. He can’t tell whether Geonhak picks up on it, but Geonhak doesn’t seem to mind either way and just leans into Seoho’s space easily, like he’s never thought of himself belonging anywhere else. 

Seoho is used to people overstepping his boundaries whether they’re physical or emotional. What he’s not used to, is being _okay_ with it, and the absence of displeasure leaves him confused enough to just stare at Geonhak while Geonhak observes the discoloration underneath Seoho’s eyes. 

“You look tired,” says Geonhak. “Rough morning?” 

“I guess,” Seoho says. He’d woken up a few hours before Hyejoo needed to be awake to catch up on work, put wet laundry in the dryer that he’d missed out on last night, and make himself coffee so that he’d be able to get through the morning without keeling over. 

Then he’d sat through an unnecessarily long meeting as soon as he’d arrived at work, one of the rare times Yoonjung had been willing to reschedule in order to make sure he’d be present. He wasn’t even in charge of the project, only participating in minimal management and consulting for a portion of it, and the author they were working with had been more than a little difficult about accepting new changes even though the revisions were easier dealt with early on. 

The only thing that had gotten him through it all was Youngjo’s gently scandalized expressions every time the author had vehemently disagreed with an idea everyone else approved of, leaving Seoho to stare down at the table as he tried not to burst out laughing. 

“Could have been worse,” he adds. 

“It could always be worse,” Geonhak replies. He’s giving Seoho a look that Seoho can’t exactly read, almost as if he’s trying to pick out the invisible words in between the strategic few Seoho’s chosen to say. “Doesn’t mean your day wasn’t difficult.” 

They decide on a Korean restaurant that Seoho has visited a few times with coworkers, located within a reasonable walk a couple streets over next to a video game shop and an Asian based bookstore Seoho visits with Hyejoo every now and then when she wants to look through doll making magazines or beading books. 

“Xion isn’t coming with us?” Seoho asks, upon Geonhak taking the initiative to herd him out the door once a few teenagers enter the shop to get some piercings. Xion hadn’t had takeout lunch on the counter today, and it makes Seoho wonder if they should wait for him to finish up with his current customers first in case he ends up eating alone. Seoho is usually wary of inviting additional people to eat with him if he’s already agreed to a one to one meal, but Xion and Geonhak seem close enough that Geonhak probably wouldn’t mind, and the man Seoho should be most wary of is the one he’s decided to dine with.

“He’s got lunch plans with a friend,” Geonhak explains, before he thinks more about what Seoho’s asked and cuts his eyes at Seoho. Both hands in his back jean pockets, he bumps Seoho with his shoulder. “Why? Did you want him to?” 

“Just wondering,” Seoho says. 

Geonhak watches him for a moment. “Don’t like him more than you like me,” he says, voice somehow managing to come out small even as his stare remains self-assured, and the less stubborn part of Seoho can’t help but find that childish, honest way of demanding to be liked rather endearing. 

“I haven’t even known you for two weeks,” Seoho points out. “What makes you think I like either of you?” 

Geonhak purses his lips, although the twinkle in his eyes makes it obvious that Seoho’s words haven’t done any real damage. “I would be hurt by that,” he says, “if I didn’t have inside information from Hyejoo about how you smile at your phone when you’re talking to me.” 

“So you’re a little entertaining,” Seoho says. He can feel his ears grow hot, but the heat hasn’t reached his face yet, thankfully. “It doesn’t mean anything. I have the same reaction to videos of cats failing at clearing jumps.” 

“I can settle for that,” Geonhak says. “You don’t dislike Xion, though. I could tell from the way you humored him the first time you came into the shop.” 

“I wonder,” Seoho says, but he doesn’t deny Geonhak’s inference either. Xion is one of those people Seoho doesn’t mind being in the same room with, and he doesn’t feel drained after a conversation with Xion the way he does with some writers, or coworkers, or fellow parents at the elementary school. Xion gives the impression of being a forest creature who knows enough information about you to be unnerving when he reveals it, briefly, but mostly harmless and devoid of any motive other than to amuse himself. “He’s... interesting.” 

“I grew up with him,” Geonhak says. He pulls Seoho closer to him by the shoulder as a biker zips past them from behind, and Seoho turns to look at Geonhak, curiosity drawn out of him naturally at the unexpected connection between Geonhak and Xion. “He’s… he doesn’t take anyone’s shit now, but he was more defenseless, when he was younger. It’s been nice to see him grow more comfortable with himself, less scared.” 

Seoho has no trouble picturing a younger Geonhak going out of his way to protect a smaller Xion, and even if he’s only relying on the combination of his imagination and what he’s seen from the current version of them together, the image is one that makes him smile. 

“So the nurturing thing you’ve got going on isn’t just directed at kids,” Seoho says. “It’s directed at everyone.” 

“I like taking care of people.” Geonhak says. “If they let me.” 

“I can tell,” Seoho says. Rather than grand pleasantries and gestures meant for an audience, Geonhak pays attention to the details, even if they’re different from the type of details Seoho personally focuses on. Geonhak’s driving force is defending and protecting, and Seoho’s motive is always somewhere in the realm of maintaining order. “You’re very…” 

“Forward?” 

“Pushy,” Seoho says, just to push a button, and then Geonhak’s scowling at him hard enough that it makes Seoho grin at him in a makeshift apology. “Not that it’s a bad thing, wanting to take care of other people. I can’t say the same for myself, though.” 

“What do you mean?” Geonhak asks. “Hyejoo…” 

“I had to learn fast, after she was born,” Seoho says. “Even now, I think she’s an exception. I’m not particularly good at taking care of anyone else.” 

He’s never been one to linger on memories, especially if they’re a centerpoint in a web of other ones he prefers not to revisit, but he distinctly remembers staring at Hyejoo a month after she’d been born, her eyes glued to his face as she started to make some sense of her existence in a new, unfamiliar world, and feeling like his heart had finally washed ashore to safety after drifting along at sea for years. Some evenings when Hyejoo is asleep in his lap, tired from school and homework and extracurriculars, Seoho still feels that same weighted feeling, like he has roots he’s tied to when he feels everything else in his life pulling him left and right, demanding more of his attention even as he’s spreading himself thinner with every day that passes. 

“I think that’s enough,” Geonhak says, nudging Seoho when he sees a near invisible dip in the road that Seoho’s about to cross over to make sure Seoho doesn’t trip. Once they pass that dip, Seoho looks at Geonhak, waiting for further clarification. Geonhak gives it easily. “I mean, to take care of one heart at a time. Don’t you think so?” 

“Maybe,” Seoho says, and for the first time since meeting Geonhak, he feels comfortable enough to lean back into Geonhak with an equal amount of weight to what Geonhak’s giving him. 

✧ ✧ ✧ 

It doesn't take too long for them to be seated at the restaurant Geonhak’s taken Seoho to, and there’s not a huge crowd, plenty of tables available when the waitress at the front does take them further inside beyond the hallway area they initially waited in. 

Walking through the main pathways between tables, Seoho realizes that when he looks in more detail at the decor of the restaurant, they seem to be in the middle of a transition to a more modern aesthetic, having swapped out their old plain-er tables for ones with faux-marble tops and the sort of chairs that you see in nearly every cafe nowadays, with seats that scoop too deep and suck you in along with leg chairs that somehow make the loudest noise in the entire room if they’re budged even an inch. 

They wind up at a spot by the window, only a thin barrier separating them from the people walking on the sidewalk and making their way from shop to shop or just on their way to their one-stop destination. Thankfully, there’s a half translucent curtain to block out the harshness of the sun, made of a beige, woven material, and Seoho studies a little boy and his mother on the other side of the street as Geonhak takes off his jacket and hangs it over the back of his chair. The mother is squatting down to her son’s height, adjusting his baseball cap so that he can actually see from underneath the brim, and once she’s done, she pats his cheek affectionately and takes a shopping bag from his hand, in addition to the multitude of bags she’s already carrying on her own. 

“Oh, they don’t have metal chopsticks here,” Geonhak says, and that draws Seoho’s attention back to the restaurant interior along with the man sitting across from him. Geonhak sets aside a pair of chopsticks for Seoho, first, before getting his own. 

Seoho wipes down the tips of his chopsticks with a clean napkin as he watches Geonhak maneuver his plate around the water pitcher and empty cups carefully. “Why does that matter?” 

“Metal chopsticks are harder to use,” Geonhak says. His mouth is already small, and when he focuses, his lips form a natural pout. It’s...cute, even if Seoho’s paying more attention to Geonhak’s words to see how he can take advantage of them. “More slippery.” 

“Sounds like an excuse made by someone who’s horrible at a basic skill,” Seoho remarks, and Geonhak bristles at that. 

“Shut up,” Geonhak says. The height of his shoulders and the height of the table force him to rest his hands on the table with not much space to spread out, and Seoho clicks his chopsticks as he pointedly doesn’t stare at the press of Geonhak’s biceps against his torso. He wants to study the individual tattoos mapped out from the length of Geonhak’s wrist to where they disappear up into the sleeve of his t-shirt, but he just grins at Geonhak, resting the side of his cheek in the palm of his hand. 

“Oh?” Seoho says. “That’s quite an attitude you’ve got there, Mr. Elementary School Substitute Teacher. Is this how you talk to your students?” 

“You’re not a _student_ ,” Geonhak argues. “You’re a bully.” 

“Told me to shut up before we even started eating, now I’m a bully,” Seoho says, mimicking Geonhak’s deeper voice at the last word, and Geonhak scrunches his nose in irritation. 

“I don’t know how I feel about asking you to drop by anymore,” Geonhak says, and that draws a laugh out of Seoho before he can stop himself. “I should have known when you asked me why I wasn’t wishing you sweet dreams—” 

“Are you regretting your decision, Geonhak?” Seoho asks. It’s supposed to come out nonchalant, and yet it lands flat, in a tone of voice that Seoho doesn’t quite recognize as his own. 

“No,” Geonhak says quickly. He relaxes his shoulders, dropping his arms from where they’re resting on the table to put them in his lap. “I’m… I like it better than that frosty thing you do to people when you want them to leave you alone.” 

Xion had called him an ice prince, too, on the day that Seoho had come into _Sapphire Sun_ for the first time. “Frosty?” 

“Yeah,” Geonhak says. “The smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes.” 

Seoho hadn’t realized it’d be so noticeable to Geonhak, when they’ve only talked a handful of times. He doesn’t know how he feels about the way Geonhak hits the nail on the mark so easily when he’s talking about Seoho’s behavior, despite resembling a puppy who’s unsure of whether he’s retrieved the right ball for his owner. 

“Not that it’s bad,” Geonhak says, explaining more when he mistakes Seoho’s silent confusion for displeasure. “But you did it when we first met, and I had to keep… chipping at you before the ice shattered. You thawed out a little around Dongju, but just now… I think that’s the first time I’ve ever heard you laugh.” 

“That…” Seoho gives him an incredulous look. _Don’t do that,_ he wants to say, _don’t pay attention to things that don’t matter,_ but his throat feels clogged with a sentence he can’t quite form yet, and he wonders if mutual curiosity between two people has a chance at ever being anything more than temporary. Whether it makes more sense to keep someone guessing what colors his insides are or show them and let the interest inevitably fade after he has nothing left to offer. “What if you’re actually chipping at an iceberg and your boat sinks in the process because of the damage?” 

“That’s what you’d like to think, maybe, but I don’t think you’re an iceberg,” Geonhak says. His assumptions sound more like open questions, ones that don’t need an answer right away, and they aren’t an attempt to break down Seoho’s disposition into digestible portions. He blinks, eyes darting as his mind travels to another thought. “Anyways, it’s cute.” 

“What is?” 

Geonhak looks almost smug as he replies, “Your real laugh. Though I guess I should pay attention when it does happen, since it seems rare.” 

It doesn’t _feel_ like it’s going to be rare from now on, even if they haven’t known each other very long, and Seoho ignores the stickiness in his chest in favor of turning Geonhak’s words against him. “Well, I think you’ll be hearing it more from now on,” Seoho says, “seeing as I’ve realized you’re a clown—” 

“Shut _up_ ,” Geonhak says again, huffing, and Seoho laughs into his sleeve to stifle the volume of it. 

Geonhak watches Seoho arrange and rearrange the side dishes until they’re in a perfect rectangular formation of circular plates, not a corner out of place. He probably thinks it’s overkill, that Seoho pays attention to things like this when the waiter’s going to come in a few minutes and knock the side dishes askew, diminishing Seoho’s efforts like they’d never been exerted in the first place. 

Instead, he asks Seoho, “Do you want them arranged by color, too?” 

Seoho blinks at him, not having expected a question like that, and Geonhak only smiles at him, half amused and half serious. It’s hard to figure out which side of the seesaw Seoho should lean towards. 

He gives a cursory scan over the braised potatoes, cucumber salad, kimchi, and seasoned fish cake among the other side dishes, and he thinks that taking Geonhak up on that suggestion would be… fun, but more effort than he wants to put forth. “I don’t go to that extent,” Seoho says. 

“Fair enough,” Geonhak says. “You mentioned… that you were an editor, last time. On the phone call.” 

“Copy editor,” Seoho elaborates. He takes a sip of his water. The taste of it is a little off but he’s not picky like Youngjo, who only drinks one brand of expensive bottled water as long as he can help it, then proceeds to leave partially empty water bottles all over the interior of his expensive SUV. “I rearrange words for a living, along with other tasks my boss designates to me beyond my regular responsibilities.” 

“Yeah?” Geonhak says. “Do you work with one writer at a time or multiple projects?” 

“In an ideal world, it’d be one at a time,” Seoho says. “My time’s split between several different writers right now, and it’s hard to schedule in person meetings with them even though that’s the best way to bounce ideas off and get them through whatever block or hurdle they might be facing at the moment.”

Seoho mainly works with Hwanwoong, who’s a sweetheart and hardly ever misses deadlines but usually needs a few, sparse coffee dates with Seoho to freshen up and recharge sometimes even if he rarely asks for them. 

Then there’s San, who he works with on less projects but has to check in more frequently with and think harder about the words he uses so that it doesn’t send San further and deeper into writer's block. San is just as delicate as he looks, a flower that can’t stand the trauma of being flattened or bent or even blown over by a gust of wind because then his petals will never return to their original shape. 

And _then_ there’s Sunwoo and Q, newer writers working for the first time with their publishing company, and Seoho has to do a little bit of hand holding with them whenever Yoonjung can’t be bothered to. Sunwoo is quiet, mostly, but Changmin refuses to respond to anything other than his pen name and has some odd, unrelenting desire to insert inaccurate science facts in every single piece he’s working on regardless of whether it’d be a good addition or not. Seoho still can’t tell whether Changmin is serious about being a flat earther or not. 

“It’s probably not any easier with Hyejoo,” Geonhak says. “You must have to move your schedule around a lot.” 

“They’re accommodating enough at work,” Seoho says. The good thing about working with writers is that their personal schedules usually aren’t too deeply set in stone, and it’s not that difficult to navigate through a river current that’s going against him when it’s all he’s ever known. Even if he never hears the end of how he could be handling things better from people who have never been in his position, he reminds himself that his circumstances could be significantly worse and that’s usually enough to hold him over another day. 

He expects Geonhak to ask. People always do, once their curiosity gets the better of them and spills out into the open ground in front of Seoho’s feet, manners easily left behind in the face of obtaining information to scratch an itch they don’t have the discipline of ignoring. Why isn’t he married, they’d like to know. Why doesn’t he just hire a babysitter instead of going to the effort of rescheduling his work obligations, why isn’t his wife the one with custody of Hyejoo, why—

Instead, Geonhak doesn’t say anything, just stares at Seoho for a long, quiet moment before picking up a piece of cabbage along with some fishcake and placing the selection on Seoho's plate. 

“What…” 

“You should eat well so that you can have enough energy for the rest of the day,” Geonhak says. He’s still staring at Seoho, but the look in his eyes has settled into something more sure, more content now that he’s decided he won’t push any further. “Don’t keel over on me in the middle of lunch, either.” 

“I’m fine,” Seoho says, thickly.

“You’re fine,” Geonhak agrees. “But you could be better.” 

They fall into easy conversation after that, Geonhak filling in the silence comfortably with anecdotes about his workplace and the more notable clients he’s had come in this week. Strangely enough, he tells stories the same way he listens to them, with a subdued but intense concentration and expressions that shift every time a plot moves in a new direction as he keeps track of what he’s already explained. 

Geonhak had studied under a tattoo artist at a studio in South Korea for a few years, a man by the name of Hongjoong who Geonhak characterizes as a strawberry blonde with more bite than sweetness to him, well versed in too many subjects to count outside of his profession and highly disciplined in personal philosophies. From what Geonhak had seen, Hongjoong would only soften in the presence of his boyfriend, a tall and reserved lawyer who’d dressed conservatively in comparison to the bright colors and patterned prints distinctive of Hongjoong’s style, but had matched Hongjoong in beauty from head to toe. 

When Seoho asks Geonhak why he didn’t stay at Hongjoong’s studio, seeing as Geonhak could have easily done well with an already established social circle of artists in the same industry and potential clients who knew of him through Hongjoong, Geonhak shrugs. 

“I liked it there,” Geonhak says. His smile is pretty but complicated, especially now that Seoho notices the nostalgia seeping out at the edges of it, a little sad but not at all regretful. “But it… it wasn’t home. You know?” 

“I think so,” Seoho says. “Couldn’t see your roots settling into the soil there?” It’s sort of similar to how Seoho feels about living in this part of the city; he hadn’t moved out of the original house he and Seunghee lived in together for the sake of offering Hyejoo some stability, and there’d been no other reason to relocate besides his own discomfort, but he does occasionally wish that he could just take off and settle somewhere new, in a place where no one recognizes him or remembers who he is because of his past. Seoho is not self-absorbed enough to believe that people care about what he’s up to at all hours of the day, but when the situation calls for it, people have ample time and attention to give, forgetting that they’d resent being on the other side of the microscope just as much Seoho does. 

“Something like that,” Geonhak says, and his body language grows more closed off, more apprehensive, which Seoho doesn’t miss. He resembles a puppy (albeit overgrown, and intimidating, and rough sounding) who’s been hurt before and just pretends to have forgotten, only Seoho can see the cracks now, and he feels like he shouldn’t be able to. “Or just that I didn’t want to even if the conditions were ideal.” 

It’s clear that he doesn’t want to talk anymore about it, lips sticking out and forming a pout even smaller than Seoho had thought possible for Geonhak’s mouth until seeing it in action. 

“Or maybe,” Seoho says, pausing as he makes a show out of peering dismissively at Geonhak’s side of the table, at Geonhak’s bowl. He’s discovered a way to change the topic without having to walk on eggshells and wait for Geonhak to stop looking so forlorn, and that isn’t too hard for Seoho, who’s always been good at making people laugh even if he doesn’t always know how to make them open up. “It’s that you were a water plant all along. Like rice plants, or water chestnuts.” 

“What?” Geonhak asks. 

“Because you flood your rice with soup,” Seoho points out. “Instead of leaving it dry.” 

Geonhak pauses mid-chew, pursing his lips, to glance up at Seoho. “And?” 

“The rice is already soggy,” Seoho says, with a sniff of distaste. “So you’ve made a rice swamp. Doesn’t it ruin the texture?” 

He barely holds in a laugh as Geonhak stares at him, not yet having figured out just how serious Seoho is about picking at the way he eats. 

“No?” Geonhak says, still gauging the situation, and Seoho makes a face at him. 

“Well, I guess someone who complains about metal chopsticks wouldn’t have the brainpower to distinguish well plated food from anything less worthy—” 

Geonhak’s voice loses its usual smoothness, Seoho realizes, whenever he’s irritated, although that could also just be because the rougher undertones of it are more noticeable when his voice increases in volume. He scrunches his nose, and Seoho rolls his upper lip inwards to avoid looking as amused as he feels while Geonhak asks, “Did we come out to eat, or did we come out to have you tell me how to eat the rice that’s going in _my_ stomach?” 

“It’s your rice, yes,” Seoho says, nodding in total understanding, as if he’s not the one who provoked Geonhak in the first place. 

“Listen—” 

“But it could make whoever’s eating with you lose their appetite,” Seoho says, bulldozing over Geonhak’s attempts to fight back, and Geonhak furrows his brow comically at the senseless argument Seoho’s brought to the table, so flustered that he’s most likely forgotten about whatever was bothering him before Seoho figured out how to distract him. 

“Why are you looking at someone else eat?” Geonhak counters. “Shouldn’t you be worried about making sure your food lands in your mouth and not on your shirt?” 

“Some of us have excellent motor skills, Geonhak,” Seoho says, clicking the ends of his chopsticks together obnoxiously to further drive his point home, and Geonhak makes a low growl at him. 

It’s the kind of reaction Seoho enjoys receiving the most when he’s picking on someone, and temporarily, he forgets to be careful and watch the fondness pooling inside of him like waves that will soon splash over the dam walls. Affection like this is dangerous in that it’ll make him recall the contagious warmth of Geonhak’s laugh later when he’s alone, heat bleeding through Seoho’s skin and _into_ his body despite the fact that Geonhak isn’t even touching him right now, making it difficult for Seoho to make a tangible cut on the connection between them. 

When Seoho returns to work, fatigue returning as soon as he sits down in his chair and looks at the rest of his schedule before he has to go pick up Hyejoo, he realizes that the time he’d spent with Geonhak today had felt like shedding an unbelievably heavy coat that he’d never been able to take off before, the material of rough burdens and scratchy responsibilities washed away in the wake of Geonhak’s warm, yielding personality and soothing, low voice. 

He considers that, along with the way Geonhak tends to herd him like a sheep whenever they’re walking together, protective in making sure Seoho doesn’t trip on anything but mischievous enough to let Seoho walk in the wrong direction and wait for Seoho to notice first. Seoho hadn’t minded, surprisingly, and their meal together had felt more like a well spent playdate than two adults splitting a lunch bill, although it does make him wonder, in amusement, just what he’s gotten himself into and whether it’s too late to try and escape the clutches of Kim Geonhak. 

✧ ✧ ✧ 

_Don’t make this a habit_ , Seoho tells himself two days later, as his and Geonhak’s knees brush against each other underneath the ramen bar that stretches all around the partially open kitchen of the restaurant they’re currently in. Their personal bubbles overlap like this, much less distance between them compared to if they were sitting at a table or a booth, and Seoho shouldn’t have worried about the cold draft coming from the air conditioning when he has a human furnace right next to him.

Seoho isn’t a fan of overpriced, faux-authentic ramen, but service here is fast for what it’s worth, and it’s located close enough to his office that it’ll compensate for the extra time required for eating with a second person instead of eating on his own. It would probably have been smarter to say no to Geonhak’s casual lunch invitation, but between a tasteless meal alone and Geonhak’s easygoing warmth, and not much else to look forward to after lunch, Seoho hadn’t taken very long to give in. 

Maybe Seoho comes off as icy because it’s cold inside of his heart, and that cold sometimes escapes if he’s not careful enough to keep it contained, but Geonhak is the only person who doesn’t lose his own warmth when they’re together, doesn’t make Seoho feel like he has to melt entirely to make way for Geonhak’s comfort. 

Geonhak blinks in bewilderment when Seoho asks what days are good to bring children-visitors to the tattoo shop. He’s got his arms folded over each other on the tabletop as they wait for their food, the knit of his thin, charcoal colored sweater stretching thin across his thick biceps and elbows. “I didn’t think you’d actually…” 

“What?” Seoho asks. He finds himself wanting to nudge Geonhak to tease him, but he settles for another gentle bumping of their knees that could be easily written off as accidental. “Weren’t you full of conviction that I’d bring her to your workplace?” 

“I was making a shot in the dark,” Geonhak says. “I didn’t think you’d actually let her.” 

“She only brings it up three times a day,” Seoho says, raising an eyebrow, and that makes Geonhak’s eyes widen before he lets out a half embarrassed, half delighted laugh. It’s easy to tell, that he’s more open with his emotions because his smiles fill up his whole face with light no matter how small or wide they are, nose bridge crinkling always proportional to how bashful he’s feeling. “Why would you think that?” 

“Well,” Geonhak pauses, before he reaches out and uses his middle and ring fingers to smooth out the fold of Seoho’s sleeve. His nails are relatively flat, like Seoho’s, but longer and narrower in surface area even when the white parts have been cut to their shortest. “You know.” 

Yes. Seoho knows. He now knows that Geonhak had gone out of his way to dress more elementary-school-teacher friendly to put the parents at ease even if his young students hadn’t minded, because those are the kinds of details he pays attention to, and that Geonhak had purposely left it up to Seoho to tell Hyejoo what his main job was. Baseless contempt is an enemy Seoho shares with Geonhak, making it easy for him to understand every reason why Geonhak is so cautious even if he hates that Geonhak knows that kind of scrutiny. Seoho is all spikes and high built walls of defense while Geonhak simply relies on a moat to make himself inaccessible from all sides, only emerging with confidence once he senses someone open minded enough to appreciate who he is and what he does. 

“There’s nothing wrong with what you do.” Seoho frowns, then clears his throat. “You know that, right? It’s art, just a different form, and if people want to bring their preconceived notions into a place where it doesn’t belong, they can—”

“Thank you,” Geonhak says. He’s smiling at Seoho again, but it’s the kind that makes Seoho feel like Geonhak knows something he doesn’t, and Seoho straightens up in his seat as he feels the self-consciousness rush in. “It’s just that most parents are wary about that sort of thing so I was expecting the same from you.” 

“I don’t think I’m a good measure of what most parents are like,” Seoho says. He fidgets with the piercings on his ear, but not the new ones, no matter how much his impulsive streak wants him to. “But you probably knew that.” 

“Not a good measure of the common parent, maybe, but a good parent regardless,” Geonhak says. 

“You don’t know that,” Seoho says. Geonhak’s staring at him again, like Seoho’s a murky pool of water he’s considering plunging his hands into to see what lies underneath. He shouldn’t bother, really, is what Seoho thinks, and Seoho smiles to cover up the uncertain waves sloshing around inside of him, then realizes it’s going to backfire when Geonhak catches on that his smile isn’t reaching his eyes. 

Geonhak doesn’t comment on the shift in Seoho’s mood, just rests some of his weight against Seoho’s shoulder. He’s warm, and Seoho isn’t sure whether he wants to let himself lean back. “That might be true, but feeling it is enough, right?” 

“I guess,” Seoho says. 

The waiter comes with their food then, placing down their respective bowls in front of them and leaving some appetizers on the side, on the house. The broth in Seoho’s bowl is significantly redder than Geonhak’s, and Geonhak blinks rapidly in a milder version of a double take when he sees the difference in intensity. 

“I can smell how spicy it is,” Geonhak says, sniffing. Seoho doesn’t think it’s that bad, but he also doesn’t have a particularly sensitive nose. “How do you not kill your tastebuds like that?” 

“They die and then they ascend to higher, more powerful levels,” Seoho says, pushing at the half of a boiled egg deeper into the soup to cook the yolk a little more, and Geonhak snorts before picking up his chopsticks to start eating as well. “Hyejoo can’t handle spice, so I take the opportunity to have more of it in the meals that I don’t eat with her.” 

“That probably helps, with the hair,” Geonhak says. 

“Hm?” Seoho says, distractedly. He watches the little bubbles of oil in the broth get pushed aside as he meticulously fishes for noodles. “What does spice have to do with my hair?” 

“...Helps keep it red,” Geonhak says, lips pursed as he tries not to laugh at the silliness of his joke, and Seoho stares at him for a moment before he turns his head away to avoid giving Geonhak the satisfaction of seeing him shake with laughter. 

“By that logic, shouldn’t you drink a lot of Cool Blue Gatorade?” Seoho asks, a poor choice after barely recovering his breath, and that quickly sets both of them off into hushed laughter again. 

When they’ve both calmed down enough to resume eating without spilling soup broth over the edges of their spoon ladles, their conversation dwindles to occasional remarks and ambiguous hums that somehow translate just fine over to the other person. Geonhak’s the type to ask whether Seoho likes what he’s eating, and Seoho’s _not_ , but Geonhak tells him anyway, that the pork slices in his bowl are tasty even if Seoho ordered the same thing as him, just spicier. 

It’s been a long time since Seoho’s felt this relaxed during a lunch break, corners of his lips tugging at him rather than the other way around, and when Geonhak bumps his knee into Seoho’s and lets it stay there, Seoho doesn’t move away. 

Afterwards, Geonhak walks Seoho back to his company building, citing having eaten too much ramen and extra pork slices to feel comfortable going back to the shop and just sitting there. 

When Seoho’s about to head inside, Geonhak hems and haws, words lingering on the tip of his tongue, and Seoho glances back at him. “You look like you want to say something.” 

“About earlier,” Geonhak says. He’s got his thumbs shoved inside his jean pockets, junction between his thumb and index finger pulling tight whenever he’s on guard, and Seoho tilts his head, waiting. 

Then Seoho turns his back to the entrance of the building so that he can fully focus on Geonhak, and Geonhak seems to relax, too, now that Seoho doesn’t seem in a huge rush to leave. “Yeah?” 

“The few days I was substituting for Hyejoo’s class, I could tell how much Hyejoo loved you. As long as the assignment allows for it, she’ll take the chance to make it about you, and how much you do for her,” Geonhak says. He grins a little crooked, like he’s recalled something particularly heartwarming, but he doesn’t voice the specific image in his mind. “I’m sure other teachers have said that before, but I still thought you should know.” 

They have. Seoho just forgets, because his brain likes to zone in on all the things he could do _better_ without ever looking back to see how far he’s come. “Thank you,” Seoho says. 

“So don’t…” Geonhak says. His eyes are solemn, but they’re the same puppy eyes regardless. His hands have relaxed now, so he’s content with the bulk of whatever he’d wanted to tell Seoho. “Your expectations for yourself are probably unhuman, so don’t get upset when you don’t meet them.” 

“I’ll try,” Seoho says. “I’ll remember that. See you on Saturday, then?” 

“Yes,” Geonhak says in confirmation, nodding, and Seoho does head inside this time, feeling Geonhak’s eyes on his back all the way into the lobby. 

✧ ✧ ✧ 

Hyejoo eyes the first floor of _Sapphire Sun_ carefully, taking in the body jewelry displayed in the glass cabinets, captive bead rings of various sizes and materials alongside a selection of gold studs with an assortment of designs. She has her hands clasped together behind her back, and Seoho lets her roam for a bit as he checks new texts that had come in from work on their way here. 

“Daddy said Mr. Kim does tattoos,” Hyejoo says. “But…” 

“I work on the second floor,” Geonhak explains. “First floor is for people who want to add more jewelry to their ears or other…” he laughs, “places.” 

His hair is down today, blue-gray bangs bordering on overgrown and falling into his eyes, and it makes him look younger than he usually does for work. He’s dressed in a color block cardigan sectioned off into various blues and jeans with rips that have the threads stretching almost too thin across his solid, muscular thighs. The V-shaped cut of the cardigan hides very little considering he has nothing on underneath, and after a brief scan, Seoho tears his eyes away to focus on Hyejoo instead. 

“Like their nose, or eyebrow,” Hyejoo suggests, and Geonhak nods at her with an affectionate smile. Then Hyejoo frowns a little, processing a new thought. “Wait, Daddy, did you get new piercings?” 

“...No,” Seoho says, as Geonhak raises an eyebrow at the lie, and Hyejoo grabs onto Seoho’s coat sleeve and stands on her tiptoes to get a better look at his ears. 

“You did! There’s new ones at the top, right?” she says, and Seoho grins apologetically at her. “You promised you would get your next ones with me, when I get my earlobes pierced!” 

Seoho squats down, pretending to wince while he lets her whack him on the chest.“I’m so sorry, Hyejoo, please forgive me~”

“Mr. _Kim_ ,” Hyejoo says, with an almost accusatory tone as she whips her head back to glare at him, and Geonhak puts his hands up. 

“I didn’t get here until the piercings were already done,” Geonhak says, which does nothing to alleviate her distress even if it clears his name, and Seoho groans as Hyejoo makes an irritated noise. 

Then Geonhak squats down, too, and tugs at Hyejoo’s arm until she lets him hold her hand. “Your dad was probably testing out how safe this place was before he brought you here. Not every piercer is the same, you know.” 

And just like that, the frown is instantly wiped from Hyejoo’s face, and Seoho’s eyes are as wide as his daughter’s at the sheer amount of magic that must have occurred to turn her mood around so quickly. “Really?” 

“Yeah,” Geonhak says. “Some piercers don’t use the best jewelry, or they pierce crooked, or they sell you strange ointments that don’t actually help you heal. My first piercing wasn’t that great of an experience and I had to take out my jewelry a few months later and let the hole close up even though I’d spent money on it.” 

“Oh,” Hyejoo says, leaning over to either side of Geonhak to look at his earrings. He has significantly less than Seoho, but enough to garner interest if the light were to hit him at the right angle. “Your earrings are pretty, Mr. Kim.” 

“Thank you, Hyejoo,” Geonhak says. “So you’re not mad at your dad, right?” 

He bounces Hyejoo’s hand in his palm, raising his eyebrows hopefully at her, and Hyejoo’s pout slowly disappears until it’s completely gone and she’s just staring at him. She isn’t easily swayed by most adults, but Seoho is quickly realizing Geonhak is nothing like any other adult he and Hyejoo have ever met. 

Hyejoo turns to Seoho, leaning into him even as she continues holding onto Geonhak’s hand. “I guess not,” she replies. “Is that what you were doing, Daddy? Making sure it was safe?” 

“Yup,” Seoho says, as convincingly as he can manage, and she pecks him on the cheek, satisfied with that explanation. 

When they’ve gone upstairs and Geonhak is showing his workspace, Seoho watches from a few feet away, pretending to take interest in a particular design that’s still in progress at the corner of a table as he watches Hyejoo and Geonhak out of the corner of his eye. 

Geonhak’s staring up like he’s thinking as he tries to explain something about one of the pieces of equipment to Hyejoo, who’s listening with utmost fascination. His hand hovers over her head whenever she moves close to a sharp table corner or shelf edge, a preventative measure so that she doesn’t get hurt. 

The gesture makes something akin to warmth flood Seoho’s chest, and he looks away to avoid acknowledging it when Geonhak glances at him by chance, the timing making it seem like he’s sensed a shift in Seoho’s mood even if it’s impossible for him to have read Seoho’s mind that way. 

Geonhak lets Hyejoo flip through the laminated sheets of his portfolio binders, including some older ones dated as far back as 2014. He shows her the sketchbook he’s currently working in, more than half of the pages haphazardly stained with some sort of diluted ink and decorated by diagonal blocks of small handwritten text. 

“You draw a lot of animals, Mr. Kim,” Hyejoo says. She’s tiny like this, surrounded by Geonhak’s much larger, protective frame hovering over her, and she looks like a little mouse taking shelter from the rain underneath a large, strong leaf. “I like the dots you use inside the outlines too.” 

“Thank you,” Geonhak says. “I really like animals.” 

“Me, too. The way you draw animals is my favorite,” Hyejoo says, not taking her eyes off of the current page she’s looking at, and Geonhak smooths out the flyaway baby hairs at the crown of her head as his eyes fill, unmistakably, with affection. 

“Is that what your clients mainly come to you for?” Seoho asks. “Animal-centric work?” 

“Yeah,” Geonhak says. “When I first started out, it was more to the style of whoever was interested in getting a tattoo from me at all, understandably. But I’ve been fortunate in gaining a reputation and curating my personal style to the point where I can be more selective with the proposals I get now.” 

“I noticed a lot of mythical creatures and astrological symbols in the tattoos that you do,” Seoho says, stepping closer to Hyejoo and Geonhak. He’d studied the photographs covering the walls earlier. There’d been a lot of lunar cycle progressions, constellations personified into characters, even multiple suns being shot down in one particular piece that he thinks might have been a reference to a Chinese folktale. 

At most, Seoho had expected to be impressed, nothing else. Even before he’d known that Geonhak was the tattoo artist working at this shop, he’d browsed enough photos on _Sapphire Sun’s_ Yelp page to know that the people running this place knew what they were doing and where to recruit their talent. 

But there’s something so striking about Geonhak’s work, each piece an integration of melancholy and nostalgia and peace, riveting enough to feel like their soft breaths travel in Seoho’s direction despite the photographs being still, static depictions. It’s clear that his designs are deeply rooted in reality, and yet they seem to draw from worlds that the human eye remains incapable of seeing. Where every line starts and ends, whether it’s finalized as a mere dot or proves to be a curve that’s been doted on for hours, feels like a result of his earnest conversational style and undivided devotion, and staring for too long had left Seoho feeling oddly split open at the seams, like his mind was too full, too vivid, too _much_ where it’d been gray and comfortably blank for years. 

Somewhere in the back of Seoho’s own closet, inches of dust are probably collecting on his own sketchbooks. He doesn’t even remember the last time he picked up a pen to do anything other than make corrections or haphazardly write to-do lists on the back of bill envelopes, but _interest_ , like a creature who’s fallen asleep for too many seasons, blinks the fatigue out of its eyes and stirs awake inside of Seoho’s chest. 

And as Geonhak smiles at Seoho, perfectly, innocently unaware of how much of a grasp he has on Seoho, all Seoho can think is:

 _oh fuck._

“A lot of my clients like adding whimsical or surreal elements to their pieces, or elements based off of particular areas in mythology they’re interested in,” Geonhak explains, before he chuckles. “I do, too, so it makes sense that we somehow end up meeting each other and working together.” 

Seoho’s tongue feels dry and unfamiliar against the roof of his mouth. “Do you ever work in color?” 

“Occasionally,” Geonhak asks, blinking a few times as he looks back at the wall behind him. His blinks are more emphasized, more precise when he’s thinking. “I’ve done a couple color pieces recently, just haven’t put them up on the wall yet. I prefer working in black and white, or just values, but the situation calls for it and I’m willing, I’ll do color.”

“I see,” Seoho says. 

“Why?” Geonhak asks, before his face turns a little pensive. He’s noticed that something’s off, and he watches Seoho’s expression for any other signals that might slip out while Hyejoo leans into Geonhak, listening to the two of them converse patiently. “Were you thinking of getting one?” 

“Nothing in particular,” Seoho says. 

“I think it’d be pretty if Daddy got one,” Hyejoo says. 

“Right?” Geonhak says. He worries at his lower lip with his top teeth, obviously picturing the idea in his head, and Seoho would feel more cornered if it weren’t for the fact that Hyejoo’s in the room with them. “Pretty art on an even prettier canvas.” 

“Don’t tell her strange things,” Seoho says, flushing uncomfortably. 

“They’re not strange,” Geonhak says. He blinks as he glances upward to give Seoho a pointed stare. “Just my thoughts.” 

“Daddy said I can get tattoos when I’m older, if I think about it for a long time,” Hyejoo says. She’s staring at one particular page in Geonhak’s sketchbook, hand pausing on the corner as she waits to turn it. “I don’t know if I want one, though, even if they’re really nice.” 

“That makes sense,” Geonhak says. “It’s not something you should decide on lightly since it technically lasts forever. I got my first tattoo when I was twenty.” 

“How old are you now, Mr. Kim?” 

“Twenty-nine,” Geonhak answers easily. 

“Three years younger than Daddy,” Hyejoo observes. 

“Is that so?” Geonhak says, but he’s looking up at Seoho, now, like their ages in relation to each other make for a riveting discovery. “I’m learning new things about your dad everyday.” 

“Daddy also draws really well,” Hyejoo adds, before Seoho can even stop her in her tracks. “But he doesn’t have a lot of time to help me with my projects.” 

She kicks out her feet a little, her legs too short to reach the floor from the stool Geonhak’s placed her on, and Seoho’s heart aches because it’s a habit that reappears whenever she’s trying to convince herself something doesn’t bother her as much as it does. 

“Really?” Geonhak asks. 

Seoho would love to be clueless about why Hyejoo is so willing to overshare when it comes to Geonhak, considering it’d make Seoho’s agenda to remain indifferent to Geonhak significantly easier to carry out, but he also knows _exactly_ why. 

It’s the earnestness in Geonhak’s eyes every time he talks to Hyejoo, the sincerity of soft spoken words carefully chosen to tame her but not talk down to her, the glances towards Seoho whenever there’s a boundary Geonhak wants to make sure he’s not crossing even if he’s always respectful regardless. 

“Would you like me to help you with your projects, then?” Geonhak asks, and Hyejoo’s eyes widen in delight at the unexpected offer. 

“It’s okay,” she says, even as she continues to stare at him, twinkling stars of admiration practically pouring out of her eyes and onto the floor between them. 

“I mean it,” Geonhak says. “I’m not sure that I’ll always have time if it’s last minute, but your dad has my phone number, so you can call me whenever you need my help and I’ll do my best. Okay?” 

He extends his hand to hold her pinky in between his thumb and index finger. 

“Mr. Kim,” Hyejoo says, voice going solemn. “Your heart is as pretty as you are.” 

Geonhak scrunches his nose at the compliment, bright enough to make what little remains of Seoho’s indifference wither away entirely. “I think that’s you, though?” he says, winking, and Hyejoo beams at him.

The air between them feels a little or a lot like magic, and at this point, Seoho has given up on trying to see the warning signs before he’s unwittingly pulled into Geonhak’s space, both emotionally and physically. Geonhak grins at Seoho, then, and Seoho smiles back, letting the tide of Geonhak’s natural tenderness rise up to his ankles and tempt him to step forward, seeking more warmth from stronger waves. 

✧ ✧ ✧ 

“You were quiet at lunch, and afterwards,” Geonhak says. “Does it bother you?” 

He smells like a mixture of cologne and strawberry, the strawberry part of it probably coming from the cafe they’d visited earlier. Seoho’s almost certain he smells like it, too, even if Hyejoo had been the only one between the three of them to consume any fruit-flavored drinks. Seoho had opted for black coffee, and Geonhak had only ordered a bit of dessert, more than half of which he’d shared with Hyejoo. 

“Does what bother me?” Seoho asks. 

Geonhak juts his chin out in the direction of Hyejoo, who’s surveying a display of animal themed notebooks and pens and erasers about ten feet away from them. She most likely won’t ask for anything today, but Seoho’s keeping an eye on where her gaze lingers in case a special occasion rolls around and he wants to surprise her with a gift. 

“Me getting too close,” Geonhak says. “Me offering… to help Hyejoo without asking you first. You don’t say anything, so I can’t exactly read what you’re feeling.” 

“It doesn’t bother me,” Seoho says, because it genuinely doesn’t. “She adores you.” 

“I adore her, too,” Geonhak says, before he pauses. It’s like he thinks he has more to say before he can decide whether that sentence is completed, an implied _and you_ hanging somewhere in the air between them, and Seoho doesn’t let himself linger on it for long because it’s too early for Geonhak to mean anything to him. “But I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.” 

“I like how much she likes you,” Seoho says. “She’s always been agreeable, and she always tries her best to make the people around her happy, but it’s rare for her to get attached or open up the way she has with you.” 

“Does that run in the family?” 

A soft request for information. Seoho doesn’t think about how willing he is to fulfill it. 

“Being agreeable? Or making people happy?” Seoho asks, dryly. On the surface, he and Seunghee were equally agreeable around each other, but maybe it’d been a result of the growing distance between them and Seoho’s willingness to withdraw to make things peaceful, and in the end, they hadn’t made each other happy at all. “No comment.”

“No,” Geonhak says. He’s so _touchy_ , although Seoho’s too busy trying not to think about old mistakes that he doesn’t notice Geonhak’s hand resting right above Seoho’s hip on his right side, squeezing briefly. “Not opening up. She got that from you, right?” 

“You…” Seoho narrows his eyes, before realizing Geonhak’s standing a little too close. “Back up.” 

“Local orange kitten unsheathes its claws to remind society that he’s a force to be reckoned with,” Geonhak says, and Seoho’s ears flush even as Geonhak generously allows him some more personal space, removing his hand after dragging his palm across the lower part of Seoho’s back. 

“Shut up.” 

“I am paying back for the bullying from the other day,” Geonhak says. 

“Me making fun of your discomfort with using metal chopsticks and your less than adequate eating habits is not the same as probing for information on why my personality is the way that it is,” Seoho says, and Geonhak shrugs. 

“What if the most defining trait about me is my aversion to metal chopsticks?” Geonhak asks, and Seoho bumps him in the shoulder. 

“Your most noticeable trait is the fact that your hair’s puke-colored,” Seoho says, and Geonhak lets out an indignant _hey_ before Seoho starts to talk over him. 

Geonhak quiets down as soon as he notices Seoho’s voice has gone more monotone, realizing that Seoho has chosen to reveal the sort of information that he might conveniently forget having revealed later on. 

“Seunghee, Hyejoo’s mom, is…” Seoho starts, before he stops himself from oversharing and settles for ripping out just one page of his book rather than the whole binding. “Well, she’s definitely more expressive than I was, since she was the one who always wanted change. So I guess Hyejoo does take after me.” 

Seunghee had been okay with confrontation, okay with failure, okay with destroying things in the hopes that they’d become beautiful again. 

And while it’s admirable in retrospect, Seoho has only ever felt that courageous when it comes to words, because you can rearrange words and phrases as many times as you want without much of a cost until you get the best result for exactly what you need, but the consequences of starting over and recovering from setbacks in life leave much deeper scars than a few lead indent marks on wrinkled paper. 

Hyejoo glances at them then, lip curling downwards just a bit when she senses the seriousness in their facial expressions, and Seoho smiles at her reassuringly until she’s back to browsing pens again. 

“I don’t tell her details, obviously,” Seoho says. “Some things aren’t worth dumping onto children because adult behavior and motivations are a headache, but she’s… aware that I’m not fond of socializing much with the other parents, and she pays attention. I’m sure that kids have made remarks, too, based on what their parents say at home.” 

“I wish people would be more careful with what they say, especially in front of kids,” Geonhak says. “Children are... sponges waiting to soak up information and thoughts, even if they have no intentions when they repeat it to someone else. But those thoughts can hurt when they reach the people who were never meant to hear them in the first place.” 

“Yeah,” Seoho says. He considers past conversations held with old high school friends and the assorted reactions he gets in response to people finding out it’s just him taking care of Hyejoo, enough of them comprised of blatant doubt at his abilities to manage it all on his own that Seoho doesn’t reply to “catching up” messages anymore. “Some of them grow up excelling at putting their own lives above other people’s, while others have to undo what they’ve absorbed by sheer exposure from early childhood when they realize it’s harmful.” 

Hyejoo comes to them then, satisfied with what she’s been able to browse in the time that they’ve been chatting away, slipping her hand into Seoho’s and asking how much longer Geonhak is willing to stay with them today. 

“As long as you want, Hyejoo,” Geonhak says, making Hyejoo light up with renewed delight all over again, and Seoho wonders how much he means it. 

✧ ✧ ✧ 

Seoho has never really allowed himself to give up space in his heart for anyone besides Hyejoo. 

Despite rest being so hard to come by, there is no loneliness, not when he wakes up to Hyejoo’s bright energy and warm presence on weekends, sometimes even drawn into the kitchen to make banana waffles for a rare breakfast where they’re allowed to slow down. Hyejoo never complains about the constant lack of _time_ in their schedules and the never ending obligation to rush, but even if Sundays are the only days of the week Seoho allows himself to sleep a little more, he thinks it’s still worth it to crawl out of bed earlier and watch the way Hyejoo’s eyes light up, sunlight taking an intermission to shine out of those lovely honey brown irises instead of through the windows of their home. 

With Hyejoo’s near hysterical giggles filling the kitchen and her affinity for eating more syrup than waffle, Seoho’s heart filling to the brim with affection and spilling over, how can Seoho ever feel lonely? 

They’re fine like this, just the two of them, and yet…

Seoho’s not sure whether it’s his heart willingly expanding what little real estate it’s already working with, or that Geonhak’s pushing his way in by sheer force, puppy eyes and soft, inquisitive words providing a stark contrast to a voice that settles easily into the deepest parts of Seoho. 

Or maybe it’s just that Geonhak is sand, because he’s far too gentle to make a path for himself if it means hurting others. Perhaps it’s that sun-kissed warmth of his presence pouring into the spaces between the rocks and pebbles Seoho has filled in his glass jar of a heart, and Seoho has been mistaken in believing that nothing else could ever be added to make it fuller when those rocks been rattling all along with nothing to hold them firmly in place. 

The realization comes to Seoho, just as Geonhak places a hand on the thickest part of Seoho’s thigh, offering himself balance as he breaks any concept of personal space to see what Seoho’s looking at on his phone, that it’s almost unreal, how effortlessly Geonhak seems to fit in his and Hyejoo’s lives despite having not having even known them for two full months. 

Geonhak has come over in a rare slot of free time for Seoho, to spend time with Hyejoo and make dinner. Seoho had wanted to help, but Geonhak had shooed him away and assured him that Hyejoo and he were perfectly capable of managing one meal on their own. 

It’s not the first time Geonhak has visited, but it’s weirder that it feels as if he’s been here a million times, considering it hadn’t taken him very long at all to get accustomed to Seoho’s organization system, almost immediately memorizing what went where in the various drawers and cupboards of the kitchen. Hyejoo has learned to be the same sort of particular that Seoho is by sheer association and exposure, so when Geonhak, an outsider and newcomer into a world Seoho has made privy to very few people, had accepted and paid attention to the details that mattered to Seoho specifically, Seoho hadn’t really known what to do with the unexpected ripple of fondness traveling across his chest. 

“You’re looking at work stuff again?” Geonhak says, and Seoho puts his phone aside, not locking it. His half written email draft to Yoonjung remains unsent as he directs his attention to Geonhak. “You’ve been doing that ever since I got here.” 

“Sorry,” Seoho says. “Did you need me to help with anything?” 

“It’s not a ‘sorry’ that I’m looking for,” Geonhak says. He slides his hand down to Seoho’s knee, scratching lightly across where the skin seems to stretch thinnest over bone. Seoho is about to brush him off because it tickles and he doesn’t want to laugh, but Geonhak stops soon enough and just rests his palm, body heat bleeding into the exposed skin of Seoho’s leg through the open rips of his jeans. “And no, Hyejoo and I have got it covered. You can’t smell the masterpiece that is dinner?” 

“I don’t have a great sense of smell,” Seoho admits, but he sniffs anyway. “Curry, right?” 

“No, spaghetti,” Geonhak says, before his eyes crinkle up adorably and he laughs. Seoho wonders, idly, what it would feel like to swipe his thumb over the lines of joy at the outer corners of Geonhak’s eyes and temples, and whether that unfiltered joy would transfer through where their skin meets. “Yes. Curry.” 

“Daddy—” 

Seoho swallows the wave of desire that rushes up to his throat as Hyejoo comes bounding over. At their entangled limbs, she tilts her head thoughtfully while she processes the implications of their physical proximity, and Seoho lifts Geonhak’s hand off of his knee to place it back in Geonhak’s own lap. 

“What is it?” 

“Will you cook apples for me and Mr. Kim later?” she asks, still looking between him and Geonhak. Seoho would maneuver himself farther from Geonhak, but there’s no more space to his left as he’s already at the very end of the couch, and to his right, Geonhak isn’t budging an inch. 

“Of course, chipmunk,” Seoho says, and as she pouts at him, satisfied, he hopes that her subsequent silence means she’s thinking about whether he’s going to accidentally burn the apples and not about what Geonhak has become to him. 

“Daddy doesn’t like vegetables even though he tells me to eat more of them,” Hyejoo says at dinner, wrinkling her nose when Seoho dutifully scoops more peppers from the pot of chicken curry into her bowl. They’re the sweet ones, yellow and red making for a pleasing combination with the caramel brown of the sauce. “He wants me to suffer.” 

“Hyejoo,” Seoho says with a sigh, while Geonhak chuckles, “don’t you have any consideration for your poor dad?” 

“What,” Hyejoo says. Her hair’s a little messy, wisps of the shorter pieces falling out of her ponytail. Geonhak had taken her out briefly to play a bit of badminton while Seoho had been conducting a conference call, but it’s nearing the end of the day so it doesn't really matter. She looks cute like this anyways, complexion bright from the exercise and strawberry plushie on her hairband adorably lopsided. “It’s true.” 

“Just because it’s true doesn’t mean Geonhak needs to know,” Seoho says. “You tell him everything that comes to your mind.” 

“But Mr. Kim likes you the same no matter what I say about you,” Hyejoo says, lips puffing up into a pout. “He watches you even when you’re not paying attention to what we’re doing.” 

“That’s…” Seoho sighs. He can feel the heat rush to his ears, his reaction complicated by the fact that Geonhak’s right _there,_ and Geonhak releases a soft little exhale laugh from next to him. “Do you want more chicken?” 

“No thank you,” Hyejoo says cheerfully, properly satisfied by the underlying tone of defeat in Seoho’s voice, and she sits back down in her chair, scooting it forwards so she can eat closer to the table. 

✧ ✧ ✧ 

In the time of the year where the weather can’t decide between settling for winter or spring, Hyejoo gets sick. Since her immune system has proven a little more resilient than most of her classmates, she tends to catch whatever bug’s going around near the end of the sick season, but that means more suffering for her and more worry for Seoho even if he always manages to handle it some way, somehow. 

Much to the displeasure of Yoonjung, Seoho takes time off from work to pick Hyejoo up from school early when he gets a call from her school that she isn’t feeling well.

Hyejoo is pale when he arrives, but she looks relieved to see him, and Seoho’s stomach drops, guilt resembling hundreds of sharp little teeth chewing on his insides.

“You shouldn’t bring her to school if she’s sick,” Ms. Greene tells him, like Seoho is five years old and not thirty two, like he’d willingly put his daughter through hell just so he can avoid taking care of her when that’s not the reality of it at all. Hyejoo had been a little quiet at breakfast, but Seoho had been too preoccupied with work, attributing her less bubbly attitude to sleepiness after she’d stayed up later than usual last night. 

“Sorry, Daddy,” she says, when they’re in the car. She’s in the backseat, having buckled herself in, and the irritation of dealing with the office workers and Ms. Greene seeps right out of Seoho’s shoulders, passive aggressive words from people who don’t matter and never will fading into the recesses of his mind in the wake of Hyejoo’s unnecessary apology. Her voice sounds so small, and tired. 

“Daddy’s the one who should be sorry,” Seoho says, rubbing at his eyes before he looks at her. “I didn’t notice you were feeling bad.” 

“I didn’t want you to worry,” Hyejoo says. 

“I know,” Seoho says. “You’re always trying your best. You did well.” 

“I want honey cinnamon tea when we get home,” Hyejoo says, before resolutely closing her mouth and looking out the car window. Her throat must hurt, badly, because that’s the only reason she’ll ask for it. 

“Of course,” Seoho says, and as he pulls out of the parking lot, he tries not to think about the ever growing pile of work that will be waiting for him as soon as Hyejoo recovers. 

✧ ✧ ✧ 

Seoho never really registers exhaustion until it drags and tosses him into a wall, everything coming to a screeching halt once his body has had enough of what he puts it through. 

Like an absolute champ, Hyejoo recovers most of her health within three days, having enough energy on the third to sing to herself again. Her appetite has returned to her in full, too, and thankfully, she’s gained back the several pounds she’d lost in her sickest days from a general unwillingness to eat. 

Seoho, on the other hand, is too distracted and stressed and ignores all the warning signs until it’s too late, until he’s waking up one morning to all of the symptoms Hyejoo had the first day she got sick and realizes he’s in for a bumpy path ahead himself. 

“Fuck,” he groans into his pillow, eyes dry enough to make him cry, ironically, as he opens them for the briefest of moments to check what time it is on his too-bright phone screen. 

_6:34 am._

Closing his eyes as fast as humanly possible, he tosses his phone somewhere in between his blankets, trying to swallow peacefully around the claws that have lodged themselves on the inside of his throat and prays for oblivion, or at the very least, a few more minutes of sleep. 

He has a long week ahead of him. 

✧ ✧ ✧ 

“Are you trying to make me feel bad for you by looking that miserable?” Yoonjung asks him, peering at him dismissively from above the frames of her glasses. “You’re acting like someone who’s never been sick before.” 

They’ve just finished a meeting, one that didn’t even require Seoho to be present, and as everything inside of Seoho sloshes in the worst way possible, he gathers enough patience to hold himself back from replying with something scathing. There are more worthy things to concern himself over, like how to walk the previously-short-now-very-long distance from the meeting room to his cubicle without abandoning all semblance of an image and resorting to crawling. 

Seoho has never been the type to exaggerate, especially not for pity, and he says as much to Youngjo, who returns to the meeting room with orange juice and a hot compress for Seoho just as Yoonjung finishes her usual spiel of nonsense that she thinks can be called life advice and leaves the room. 

Seoho rests his forehead against the cool surface of the tabletop. “Does she not consider that I look that miserable because her face is in front of my eyeballs?” he asks venomously despite his throat and nose killing him, and Youngjo holds in a laugh. 

As usual, Youngjo is dressed in a colorful, mismatched set of prints and fabrics that clash horribly, with only his good looks to compensate and tie the entire outfit together. Seoho makes fun of him for it regularly, only because he knows Youngjo never minds and spends just as long in the restroom mirrors admiring his reflection, but today is not a day where Seoho has the extra energy to play mean. 

“Did you get Hyejoo to school okay this morning?” Youngjo asks, and Seoho nods with his head still flat against the table. 

“The awful-ness of being sick hadn’t kicked in yet,” Seoho says. When he’d told Hyejoo to have a good day at school, albeit in a wobbly tone of voice, she’d looked at him like he was going to shatter if she took her eyes off of him, only heading inside the classroom after the last bell rang to avoid being late. “I’m going to pick her up later.” 

Youngjo’s eyebrows pinch together in concern. “You look like you’re going to fall apart any moment.” 

“That’s been an ongoing thing,” Seoho croaks. He wants to laugh, but even thinking about doing so hurts him. “Now my immune system just shares the sentiment.” 

“Good to see that your sense of humor is intact,” Youngjo says, with a sympathetic smile as Seoho straightens up slowly and carefully. Seoho’s head swims, but he thinks he’ll be okay if he takes a few seconds to settle every time he moves. “You think you can make it through the rest of the day? If you need it, I can drive you to pick her up and send both of you home.” 

Seoho shakes the bottle of orange juice for a few seconds, then twists the cap until the plastic ring seal snaps off. 

“I can handle it,” he says as he prepares to take a sip. Then he does, and the sugar and pulp only soothes his throat momentarily before the sandpaper pain bounces back in full force. He licks a stray droplet of juice off of his lower lip, then grimaces when it reminds him how chapped his lips are. “Thank you. For offering.” 

Questionable taste in clothes and excessive self-admiration aside, Youngjo is all heart. Seoho remembers an instance where he’d been stuck in between a parent teacher’s conference and a sudden meeting with an author that Yoonjung wanted to set up last minute, and he’d needed to pick up documents from the office. Without any hesitation, Youngjo had offered to deliver them to Seoho since he was in the area despite the fact that he’d been on a first date with his now girlfriend. 

Seoho had declined the offer, of course, but he’s never forgotten that kindness, never forgotten that Youngjo will dive headfirst into icy waters without anything to keep him warm if it means helping the people he cares about, even if they’re perfectly capable of pulling themselves out just fine. 

“Just let me know,” Youngjo says. “I know you don’t like asking for help, but you’re sick. No one’s going to blame you for underperforming when you do twice as much as everyone else here when they’re at full health.” 

“Thanks,” Seoho says, and when a bright eyed intern knocks on the meeting door, apparently needing Youngjo’s advice for something, Seoho heads back to his cubicle and lets Youngjo’s well meaning reassurances wash over him even if he knows it’s only a temporary relief. 

✧ ✧ ✧ 

The second day is when things really go to shit. 

Seoho takes the whole day off of work, ignoring the texts coming in from Yoonjung requesting that he look at a couple more things despite being “sick,” mocking air quotes courtesy to the tone of voice he can hear just from the way she words her messages. He does briefly reply to Youngjo’s text asking if he’s alive ( _no,_ he sends) and he manages to get Hyejoo to and from school without raising too much concern in his daughter on both trips. Anything non-crucial he leaves for tomorrow, curling up in bed under blankets that simultaneously feel too hot and too cold and sighing in relief at being horizontal after he’s painstakingly figured out what Hyejoo’s going to eat for dinner. It’s already in the convection oven, reheating in a little metal bowl that she can take out herself with kitchen mitts after the timer sounds. 

“Daddy~” Hyejoo hovers at the open doorway of Seoho’s bedroom. He has the lights off, so she’s only a silhouette outlined by a wash of yellow from the ceiling light in the hallway. 

“What’s up, chipmunk?” 

“Geonhak is coming,” Hyejoo says eventually, after drawing patterns on the hardwood floor with her striped-socked foot, and Seoho blinks at her a few times before the words sink in.

“...What?” 

“I called Geonhak,” Hyejoo says. She leans into the doorframe, unsure of herself, and Seoho uses his arm to hoist himself into an upright sitting position. It makes Hyejoo flinch, and with his vision still blurry, Seoho waves his hand to reassure her that she hasn’t done anything wrong and that he’s not annoyed. 

“You can turn the lights on,” he tells her, closing his eyes to prepare to adjust, and she does. 

“...Why?” Seoho asks, once he’s more used to the brightness of the room and words don’t feel so much like mud being dragged through his mouth. He runs a hand through his hair. It’s greasy at the roots, and a little dry on the ends. His brain’s at only a quarter of its regular function, but diluted concern trickles in when he realizes the house is in no state to receive visitors. “And when did you start calling him by his first name?”

“He said it was okay, because ‘Mr. Kim’ felt too formal,” Hyejoo explains. “I told him you were sick, and that it’d be nice if he could come over and take care of you if he wasn’t busy. And also help me with a small project.” 

“Geonhak wouldn’t tell you even if he was busy because he likes you too much,” Seoho says. 

“Geonhak likes you, too,” Hyejoo says forcefully. “You’re—” 

“I know,” Seoho cuts in, before she can finish that sentence. He usually doesn’t interrupt her, but he has a feeling whatever she’s about to say isn’t something he’s ready to hear yet. “But I can take care of myself. We shouldn’t take up more of Geonhak’s time than we already do. He’s got his own things to worry about.” 

“If you could take care of yourself, why did you…” Hyejoo says, and then she’s frowning, like she’s thought of something that’s made her mood go sour. It’s a bitter reminder that she really is a mirror image of Seoho, taking on more responsibility than she needs to, feeling more guilt than her precious heart can handle. Seoho hates that he’s conditioned her to feel that way at such a young age both by demonstration and by cause, despite vowing so many times not to. “Well, you got sick, and you’re not eating anything.” 

“Because I’m tired,” Seoho explains. His head is starting to feel like it’s going to split in half, now that he’s vertically positioned, and he loses track of the explanation in his head he was planning to give. “I’ll eat later.” 

“You made me eat lots even when I was sick,” Hyejoo says, a quiet fire in her eyes. “Even vegetables.” 

“To help you get better,” Seoho says, knowing how hypocritical it sounds, and Hyejoo furrows her brows at him accusingly. 

“That’s why I’m calling Geonhak,” she says. “You’ll listen to him if he tells you to eat vegetables.” 

It doesn’t help that Seoho can picture exactly how Geonhak would do it too, with those gentle eyes that have always made Seoho defrost and thaw out against his will, waiting with utmost patience until whoever he’s looking at is consumed by restlessness and pushed to do what Geonhak’s been asking for the whole time. 

“The house is a mess,” Seoho sighs in resignation. He swings his feet from underneath the blankets to hang over the edge of the bed, brain jostling uncomfortably at the motion even if it’s only a fraction of his usual speed, and Hyejoo shakes her head. 

“I already cleaned, Daddy,” Hyejoo says. “I knew you’d get fussy about it so I cleaned before I even called Geonhak.” 

Seoho does remember, in the blank gaps between the moments of clarity from earlier, hearing a lot of things being moved and shifted around, even the vacuum cleaner being turned on. Hyejoo hates vacuuming, so the fact that she’d go to the effort of doing it is...

“Chipmunk,” Seoho coos, hoping that if he makes his voice as annoying as possible, it’ll distract him from the fondness curling up in his chest. “Let me kiss you.” 

“I just got better,” Hyejoo says, voice going high pitched as she laughs. “You’re gonna get me sick again.” 

Seoho raises his eyebrows, smirking. “And…?” 

“Stay _away,_ ” she warns, taking a few steps back although she doesn’t actually seem worried that he’ll follow through with his idea, and she bolts out of the doorway before Seoho can even stand up, but not before telling Seoho to change into something else, in case Geonhak stops liking him because he smells bad. 

Seoho rolls his eyes, even if she’s already gone. 

It’s true that he could do with a fresh change of clothes, so he rummages through his drawers for a clean pair of sweats and a clean shirt. It’s not much, but he does feel a bit better after switching into a pair of soft gray sleep pants and an old college sweatshirt that’s faded from a solid black into a marbled gray from how many times it’s been through the wash. 

Geonhak, when Seoho opens the door after the buzzer sounds, is understandably more put together. He’s in a cardigan again, sleeves rolled three quarters of the way up his forearms, with a white v neck underneath and dark wash jeans that have no rips but do very little to offer Seoho’s scrambled egg brain any mercy. 

With his head against the door even as he swings it wider open, Seoho chews on his lower lip and studies the plastic bag clutched in Geonhak’s right hand, Seoho’s own hands hidden by the way he’s balled up the ends of his sweatshirt sleeves into the centers of his palms. 

The first thing Geonhak says, to Seoho’s mild horror, is: “...Cute.” 

“Complimenting me when I look and feel my worst?” replies Seoho. “How awful of you to neglect all the other times I’ve looked great.” 

“I always compliment you,” Geonhak says, chuckling. “You just choose not to listen.” 

“You shouldn’t have come,” Seoho says, even though there’s a tiny blossoming of warmth at his fingertips, sweet and secretive as it spreads through the rest of his hands and arms and fills him whole. “I don’t want you to get sick when you could easily avoid it.” 

“I’m sure you’ll be careful,” Geonhak says. He steps inside without so much as a warning, but Seoho doesn’t feel particularly inclined to stop him, making space for Geonhak to take off his sneakers and leave them next to Hyejoo’s tiny yellow ones. “We’ll be good as long as you don’t sneeze on me.” 

“No promises,” Seoho says, and it’s weird, that Geonhak hasn’t even been here for two minutes and he already feels... so much lighter. The throat pain is still there but less pronounced, and Seoho doesn’t know whether that’s a reflection of his symptoms being indecisive, or a reflection of the happiness stemming from having expected to suffer alone and being surprised, instead, with Geonhak at his doorstep. 

“Your voice sounds like it’s pretty bad.” Geonhak narrows his eyes. “Hyejoo also said you weren’t eating.” 

“She was being dramatic. I meant I was going to eat later,” Seoho says. He stares a little more at the bumpy silhouette of various items and ingredients in the plastic bag that Geonhak picks up from the floor now that he’s done taking his shoes off. “I’m sorry you came all the way here. I really would have been okay.” 

“I wanted to,” Geonhak says. “Why didn’t you…” 

Seoho rubs at his forehead. His hands come away a little filmy, and he should… probably wash his face as soon as Geonhak gets settled in. Except everything hurts, and he just wants to fall back into bed and never come back out again. “Hmm?” 

“I heard Hyejoo was sick, before you were,” Geonhak says. “She confirmed it, too, when I asked her.” 

“Yeah, she was,” Seoho says. “Though I think her being so young helped her heal a lot faster than I expected. I doubt I can recover in the amount of time that she did.” 

“Probably because you’re putting yourself under more pressure with every passing day,” Geonhak says, before he visibly swallows. “You could have called me earlier.” 

“I could handle it,” Seoho says. Geonhak’s gaze shutters into something Seoho can’t recognize. He only knows that it’s something bad, because it makes confusion and anxiety instinctively twist into his side like a knife. 

“It’s okay to rely on people,” Geonhak says, slowly. “Not the ones who don’t understand you, but…” _me,_ is what Seoho can hear even if Geonhak doesn’t finish the rest of his sentence, and it makes Seoho’s throat feel choked up with words and thoughts he hasn’t allowed himself to examine fully just yet, reminds him that being understood by anyone other than Hyejoo is an experience that’s always been temporary for him. Even if he wants to let Geonhak in, there are limits, because there will come a day when Geonhak drifts from him and Hyejoo, and the easiest way to adjust to someone’s absence is to not get used to their presence at all. 

“I don’t like to do that,” Seoho says. 

“Maybe that’s the issue,” Geonhak says. “That you think you can handle it and then you get sick. Doesn’t that make everything worse?” 

Seoho rubs at the inner corners of his eyes, annoyed when they grow even more irritated than before. He doesn’t know where his eye drops have gone or whether they’ve already expired. He considers asking Hyejoo if she remembers where they keep it, and it’s at that very moment that she comes out from her room, pulling her headphones off and letting them rest around her neck like an almost-scarf as she beams at Geonhak. 

“Mr. Kim,” she says, timidly. “You came.” 

“‘Geonhak,’ remember?” Geonhak says, smiling at her, and whatever knot was tying up Seoho’s insides disintegrates at the sight of Hyejoo’s shoulders relaxing, tension melting away as she begins chattering away about how Seoho had questioned her about calling Geonhak by his first name, and did Geonhak know that— 

Things are easier like this, if Seoho just focuses on Hyejoo. He shouldn’t overthink anything else. 

“I’ll make you something to eat,” Geonhak says to Seoho, standing back up to his full height when Hyejoo’s taken charge of the plastic bag and disappeared into the kitchen. “You should…” 

He puts the back of his hand to Seoho’s forehead, staring at Seoho’s facial features quietly as he figures out whether Seoho’s body temperature is too high. Seoho just stares at the floor. “You don’t have a fever.” 

“No, thankfully,” Seoho says. 

“I don’t want to stress you out more by nagging at you,” Geonhak says. An implied apology for their exchange just before Hyejoo inadvertently interrupted them. “Do you want to shower?” 

Seoho nods, and does as Geonhak suggests. 

He’s ambushed as soon as he comes out, by two unnecessarily strong hands and a large fluffy towel on his head to catch the stray droplets of water from his wet hair.

“What—” he says, while Geonhak slowly steers him in the direction of the living room, pushing down on Seoho’s shoulder gently so that Seoho has no choice but to sit down on the couch. 

“Hyejoo told me that your hair gets fluffy when you blow dry it,” Geonhak says. The expression on his face is divided into equal parts mischief and concern, and that has Seoho smiling even if he’s still feeling rough. “And that you rarely blow dry your hair. That’s bad for your health.” 

“Water evaporates,” Seoho says. 

“The cold sinks from your hair into your scalp,” Geonhak says, disapproval woven heavily into his voice as he plugs in the hair dryer that Hyejoo definitely brought out for him. They must have been in on this together. 

Geonhak pulls Seoho towards him by the waist with an ease that makes Seoho feel more like a feather than a fully grown man, but his hands are gentle, and after turning on the heat, he makes sure to use the thickest part of his fingertips to tousle Seoho’s hair so that he doesn’t hurt Seoho. 

Being taken care of like this makes Seoho feel like a puppy being groomed, and the thought makes him laugh, because Geonhak is the one with puppy eyes and a too-strong grip during playtime when he’s not paying attention, strength only contained by the mindful nature of his personality. Seoho is more like a cat, understated with emotions and even more so with his displays of affection, and he’d been that way since he was a young child, allegedly, although growing up had taught him the importance of being friendly even when he didn’t feel like it. 

Seoho doesn’t realize he’s fallen asleep until Geonhak’s murmuring into his ear, asking Seoho to eat at least _some_ of the porridge he and Hyejoo made, and the congestion in Seoho’s nose has him exhaling through his mouth to avoid the discomfort of regular breathing before he blinks the grogginess out of his eyes and belatedly realizes his face is tucked into Geonhak’s chest. 

“Sorry,” he says, straightening up, and Geonhak withdraws his fingers from where they’re curled around the back of Seoho’s neck to let him regain some awareness of his surroundings. 

“For what?” 

“Drooling on you, probably,” Seoho says, and Geonhak laughs. He doesn’t deny it, but there are also no damp spots on his sweater so Seoho considers it a win for his dignity. “Is this your nice sweater? My apologies.”

“Was a shower all you needed?” Geonhak asks. “Your complexion looks a little better, and you have enough energy to joke now.” 

“I might be feeling a _little_ better,” Seoho admits. If he’s being honest with himself, he thinks it has, more than anything else, something to do with Geonhak being here, bulldozing Seoho into a corner so that he has no option but to treat himself well, breathing liveliness and affection into a house that had lost its usual bustle because Seoho fell ill. 

He doesn’t tell Geonhak that, though, because Geonhak’s the type of person who wouldn’t hesitate to take those words to heart and try to live up to them even _further,_ and Seoho can’t afford to have the two of them sink even farther into each other than they already are. 

“Your hair really is so fluffy, just like Hyejoo said,” Geonhak remarks, as he watches Seoho lift slow spoonfuls of porridge to his mouth. There are too many vegetables in Seoho’s bowl, but Seoho can’t get away with avoiding them when he has two pairs of strict eagle eyes on him. 

Hyejoo is here, too, having brought out her homework to work on at the dinner table even though she has a desk in her own room, paired with a light fixture Seoho had put right above it so she could move the light to wherever she needed it to be brightest. Her headphones are no longer hanging around her neck, and she’s wearing a different sweater than Seoho remembers her wearing earlier. 

“Yeah,” Hyejoo says. “Like a poodle.” 

Seoho snorts. “A poodle—” 

“Or fried chicken,” she adds after a moment of deliberation. 

“All the more reason I don’t blow dry my hair,” Seoho says, making a face at her. “Can’t have people feeling hungry in the middle of meetings while looking at me, or like my hair’s going to bark at them.” 

“It’s cute though,” Geonhak says, as Hyejoo descends into amused giggles. “Frames your face nicely. You should wear it like this more.” 

“I think,” Hyejoo says to Geonhak, “...you’re better at making Daddy’s hair pretty, because his hair doesn’t usually look that fluffy.” 

“I’ll have to come over every morning then, to fulfill my third and best job as your dad’s personal hairstylist,” Geonhak says with a largely exaggerated wink, and Hyejoo nods, much more enthralled by the idea than Seoho.

Even with his best efforts, Seoho only manages to get through a little more than half of the porridge before he’s tapping out, much to the chagrin of both his daughter and Geonhak, who click their tongues in distaste at the exact same time like they’re twins and not two decades apart in age. 

Hyejoo covers the top of Seoho’s bowl with plastic wrap, pulling the corners of the sheet tight so that there are no dips or pockets of air going in, then snaps a rubber band around the bowl perimeter so that it doesn’t come loose before she puts it in the fridge. 

Instead of retreating to his bedroom, Seoho decides to curl up on the couch with a blanket and pillow so that he can have Geonhak’s and Hyejoo’s voices in the background to listen to. Geonhak is washing the dishes and utensils they’d used to cook the porridge, and Hyejoo hovers near him in the kitchen to make genuine inquiries about his work and ask inconsequential questions, too, which Seoho is interested in hearing the answers to even if he never remembers to ask them himself. 

Hyejoo has a project prompt that she’s not sure how to approach, and Geonhak promises to help her tackle it early since the deadline is in two weeks. 

That part of Hyejoo is where she noticeably takes after Seunghee, who’d wanted everything done early and out of the way so she wouldn’t have to worry about it later, when time was ticking and the pressure started to increase. In comparison, Seoho’s tendency is to push things as far back as he can before he’s forced to face them head on and drag himself through the tediousness of tasks he never felt and never will feel like completing, although he’s learned to keep it under control now that he’s caring for Hyejoo’s schedule, too. 

Those differences had showed in the home stretch of their relationship, too, when Seunghee had decided early on that they weren’t going to work out, and Seoho, in an ultra-rare display of optimism, had held onto the hope that they’d find a middle ground in the end and stay together to try again. He’s not sure now, whether he’d been selfish or selfless for wanting things to stay the same when Seunghee had been so obviously unhappy with him, fighting to escape the bars of the prison that were her husband and daughter. 

When Geonhak finishes washing the dishes, he comes into the living room and immediately notices Seoho on his phone. It’s a bad habit, Seoho knows, but he’s never been good at shaking off the anxiety that comes with avoiding work even when he’s supposed to be resting. 

“No,” Geonhak says, tugging loosely at the top half of Seoho’s phone with his thumb and index finger. He’s giving Seoho space to oppose him and pull the phone back, even if he doesn’t approve of Seoho having it, and it never ceases to surprise Seoho, how much Geonhak understands his boundaries even if it seems like he’s pushing past them on the surface. Seoho likes to maintain control, but doesn’t mind giving it up if it’s for the right reasons, in response to the right intentions. “It’s time for you to rest, not stare more at stuff that’s only going to tire you out.” 

“Okay,” Seoho says easily, relinquishing his hold on his phone and letting Geonhak take it from him. 

“You’re not waiting for any important messages or calls, right?” Geonhak asks, then clarifies when Seoho tilts his head, puzzled. “I’m going to silence your phone.” 

Wordlessly, Seoho nods, and Geonhak uses his thumb nail to activate silent mode through the button on the side of Seoho’s phone, then leaves it on the coffee table in the farthest corner. He makes sure the phone is square with the table sides, not diagonal or crooked, and even if he doesn’t give Seoho a second glance, it’s obvious that the gesture is for Seoho considering the only time Geonhak is ever neat is when his equipment and workspace in the tattoo shop are involved. 

It strikes Seoho in a quiet, slow wave of realization, while he dips in between consciousness and clarity to the soothing tone of Geonhak’s voice he’s softened the edges of just for Hyejoo, that before today, he’d never be caught dead showing vulnerable slivers of himself in moments like this where he’s raw and imperfect and broken down both physically and mentally. That he’s never trusted anyone else with Hyejoo the way he trusts Geonhak, who humors Hyejoo in a way that takes her age into consideration but doesn’t dumb her down to someone incapable of understanding anything remotely sophisticated, and treats the depth of her feelings equal to his own, if not even deeper. 

Geonhak, with his neck and arms and shoulders covered in black ink, with facial features that all taper off uninvitingly until the moment he smiles and lights up an entire room, with hands that are capable of so much damage and yet do the exact opposite in their tenderness, is the sort of man Seoho hasn’t learned to fear until it’s too late. 

Seoho has never been reckless, but that’s all he is when it comes to Geonhak, and the sickness has affection foolishly wrapping around him, warm as a blanket, and lulling him into a deep, peaceful sleep. 

✧ ✧ ✧ 

When Seoho comes back to work, he can feel Youngjo watching him all morning. 

“What,” he says, when he comes back from a coffee break and Youngjo is no longer trying to be subtle about cataloguing every single, small movement Seoho makes. Being observed for a reason he’s not privy to makes him feel like tiny little needles are pricking at him all over, and with Youngjo being so easygoing, it’s much simpler to directly ask. “Are you expecting me to compliment that purple atrocity on your torso?” 

“Your complexion still looks off,” Youngjo says, scratching lightly at his chin as he thinks, completely unbothered by Seoho’s dig at his silk, plum shirt. The roundness of his eyes is even more distinct when he looks up but doesn’t tilt his head upwards, his lashes long and naturally curled. “This is strange.” 

“The fact that I’m still looking a little green after getting sick?” Seoho blinks, before narrowing his eyes. He’s still low on energy, but his head doesn’t feel like it’s swimming in a swamp whenever he tries to look in a different direction, which is nice. “What’s strange about that?”

“The strange part,” Youngjo says, “is that you look less stressed. Like you… actually rested.” 

“That’s what happens when you stay home,” Seoho says, tongue feeling like it’s going to stick to the roof of his mouth. 

“That’s not it. You’ve been…” Youngjo pauses, for a more dramatic effect. “...Cheerful.” 

Seoho stills, before he grins, the width of it sly enough to hopefully wipe out all of the uncertainty that comes with what Youngo’s observation and probing question implies. “How is that possible, when you saw Yoonjung give me a pile of bullshit to deal with half an hour ago? When I’ve had to sit next to your cubicle for three years? When I thought my head was going to fall off and that I was going to puke for two days straight?” 

“Could have left the comment about me out,” Youngjo says, but he doesn’t look as bothered as he looks curious. Then after a few seconds, Seoho can see the lightbulb above his head going off, the excitement of a new idea brightening his eyes immediately. “Seoho, are you _dating_ someone?” 

“In what world did it make sense for you to find two dots that couldn’t be more unrelated and then decide to draw a line between them,” Seoho asks dully. 

“That’s not a no,” Youngjo says. 

“It’s a ‘no’ if you have half a brain,” Seoho says, lightly. “And anyways, I don’t think denial on my end would do anything to diminish your conviction.” 

“You were _singing_ in front of the vending machine,” Youngjo says, like he’d seen a ghost in the hallway instead of Seoho buying water. “That thing almost never works, and it steals everyone’s money even if you’re using the payment app.” 

“Bottled water sparks a lot of joy in my life, Youngjo,” says Seoho, and that has Youngjo scowling at him in frustration that he’s not getting any real, solid answers from Seoho. In turn, Seoho considers playing nice for a change, wondering if convincing Youngjo that there’s nothing going on romantically in his life will convince himself, too, that there’s no one lingering in the corners of Seoho’s heart. 

“I’m seriously not dating anyone. I have enough on my hands making sure Hyejoo has everything she needs, along with all the authors I’m managing and editing for at work. Where would I find the time to go on dates?” 

“They could be spending time with you and Hyejoo,” Youngjo says, and Seoho rolls his lips inwards, pressing them thin as he recalls the way Hyejoo’s laughter had filled the connected dining and living rooms last night, interweaved between Geonhak’s soft voice and even softer chuckles. Instead of two separate, discordant melodies, their voices had blended together into a song that felt like it’d been custom made just for Seoho’s ears, and Seoho, too sleepy to exercise any self-preservation, had thought to himself, _mine, mine, mine._ “That wouldn’t be bad.” 

“It wouldn’t be,” Seoho agrees, and Youngjo stares at him.

“Oh?” Youngjo says. “I thought you were going to insist on living the rest of your life slaving away as a single parent and that you had cast aside romance forever.” 

“It’s just not a priority,” Seoho says. “I’ve never been one to multitask well, anyways.” 

“Says the man who could probably conduct a meeting while walking through downtown during the busiest time of day,” Youngjo says. That’s not true, but Seoho doesn’t fight him on it. “I don’t know how you manage half the time. Hyejoo’s so well behaved, too.” 

Seoho thinks about how he’d failed to notice Hyejoo was sick until he’d been called by the school office and had to go pick her up, only to get berated by school staff and Ms. Greene for letting his daughter come to school at all. Just when Seoho thinks he’s gotten the hang of things, there’s always something new to pull the rug out from under him, and he’s never sure whether he’s moving forward an inch at a time or stuck running in place. 

“I could do _more_.” 

“Couldn’t we all?” Youngjo says, then gives Seoho a pointed look. “You would tell me if you were, right? Dating someone?” 

In response, Seoho only shrugs, and that has Youngjo looking the most offended Seoho has ever seen him in their time working together even if it’s not the worst thing Youngjo’s ever heard at their office. Then he launches into a long winded complaint about how they’ve known each other much too long for Seoho to still insist on treating him like a half stranger, and Seoho hides a laugh behind his sleeve, pretending that he’s not listening as he powers up his laptop from its nap and grabs a ballpoint pen to resume his work. 

✧ ✧ ✧ 

The best parts of the day, in Seoho’s opinion, are the parts where he’s making coffee. Whether once or twice or more, it’s a serene sort of _alone_ to be _,_ with nothing to accompany his thoughts except for the soft whirring noises from the brewer machine as it dispenses water through the paper filter and coffee grounds. 

If Seoho’s really pushing it on time, he’ll use those few minutes to continue scanning through rough drafts and scribble edit suggestions in the margins of his papers. More often than not, however, he’ll allow himself to rest his fingertips against the cold countertop and close his eyes, mind drifting wherever it wishes, as slow or as fast as it pleases until the coffee brewer quiets down and shuts off with one last puff of coffee-scented steam. 

It’s a personal ritual, simple and straightforward. A way for Seoho to recharge when the world is too cruel to grant him a nap or an escape from meetings he has no interest participating in, so Seoho is pleasantly surprised when he realizes Geonhak doesn’t take away from the tranquility of that _alone_ he so eagerly seeks out. Geonhak’s presence is merely cool, calm ocean water lapping at Seoho’s ankles, taking away the grime and dirt of the day’s hardships with every wave that goes out, bit by bit until all the impurities have been washed away and Seoho is clean again. 

“I have something to confess,” Geonhak says. Seoho’s eyes are closed, and he keeps them closed even as he hears Geonhak step closer to him, wooden planks of the kitchen floor creaking quietly. 

They’d gone out for dinner with Hyejoo earlier, to the Japanese fusion restaurant that Hyejoo particularly likes because they serve food that looks just like the dishes from the animes she watches in her free time. Geonhak had sat across from Seoho and Hyejoo in the booth they’d been led to, and as usual, he’d looked… utterly enthralled while Hyejoo told him about the compliments she’d received on her project thanks to his help and advice. Seoho had absentmindedly observed the curled locks of hair at the nape of Geonhak’s neck, as docile as their owner even if they’d grown out almost three quarters of an inch since the first day Seoho had met him. The dark brown-black of Geonhak’s natural hair color seeping into the faded olive blue had reminded Seoho that he was probably due for a touch up himself, although that was more to appease Keonhee’s hairstylist standards and not so much his own, since Seoho doesn’t mind the overgrown root look. 

The simmering attraction to Geonhak has been troublesome to work around, to say the least, but Seoho knows he’s not much of an open book even to the closest of friends, and keeping that in mind has made it easier for him to maintain his composure, leaving whatever stew of feelings his brain directs towards Geonhak on the backburner for now. 

It’ll pass. Seoho just doesn’t know how soon. That’s a problem for another day, and he opens his eyes when he senses that Geonhak’s close enough for their arms to touch, coming face to face with a sheepish gaze and small smile that makes his heart stutter even if he’s seen it a million times. Geonhak’s eyelashes are short and straight, but the defining point of his eyes lies elsewhere, in the way his eyelids and eyebrows lift so truthfully whenever he’s feeling a little shy. 

“Did you hear me?” 

“Yes. Spill your secrets, so I can use them against you,” Seoho says jokingly, and Geonhak snorts. Seoho hears it and feels it, too, because Geonhak is practically pressed up against his whole right side now. 

“I can’t…” Geonhak lets his hand hover above where Seoho’s palm is spread flat on the countertop, then drums his fingertips across the ridges of Seoho’s knuckles. “...drink coffee.” 

Seoho laughs. That explains the fidgeting and restless energy that had been rolling off of Geonhak in gentle but pronounced waves earlier. It also explains Geonhak’s aversion to ordering drinks at shops where they only sell coffee or offer very limited non-coffee options, which Seoho would have never questioned the root cause of unless a situation like this came up. “Really?” 

“Don’t laugh at me,” Geonhak says. 

“And yet, I already am,” Seoho says, before fondness, as much as he thinks he doesn’t want it, thinks he doesn’t _feel_ it, swells up in his chest like an inevitable ocean wave crashing onto shore at Geonhak’s subsequent, childish whine for Seoho to be nice to him for once. Geonhak makes Seoho think of the sea so much, with his blue hair and blue clothes and irrefusable way of drawing Seoho into his depths despite Seoho knowing better than to enter territory where he’s at a disadvantage, where he can’t get firm footing. “What are you going to do about that?” 

“Nothing,” Geonhak says. “I have no way of winning against you.” 

“That’s not true,” Seoho says. Geonhak hasn’t realized, yet. Maybe he never will, that Seoho is wary of people who appear to love more than they actually do, kindness running dry in the crucial moments, but he’s _terrified_ of people who love deeper than anyone can dive to reach, devotion persisting in extreme conditions despite never seeing the light. Love like that, whether you’re receiving or giving it, can come at a heavy price. “You have Hyejoo.” 

“You’re right,” Geonhak says. “She’s the only reason you keep me around.” He nudges Seoho when Seoho only laughs, pretending to be offended by the fact that Seoho hasn’t refuted that statement. “No denial?”

Seoho smiles at him, showing teeth. “Do you want the truth, or for me to make you feel better?” 

“I want the truth to make me feel better,” Geonhak says, and Seoho laughs again. 

“You won’t find a truth like that around here.” 

When Seoho turns to look back and figure out why Geonhak has gone silent, he finds Geonhak staring at him. It’s in a way that makes Seoho feel like he’s being peeled apart and spread out, layers transparent due to how thin they’ve been pressed, only he has no idea what Geonhak is looking at or what he’s searching for in Seoho’s face. 

“Do you think, then,” Geonhak says, and then that probing look is gone, replaced by a grin as wide as his small, full lips allow, “that if I ask nicely, I’ll be able to find your art?” 

“Art?” Seoho repeats. His skin thrums with a nervous energy, but he isn’t afraid. Geonhak is never demanding even when he pries, and the motives behind his questions are usually something horribly wholesome, like wanting to understand people better and not take advantage of their weaknesses. 

“I’ve admitted my inability to drink coffee to you,” Geonhak says. “So I want an exchange.” 

_Exchange_ is a word Seoho finds very cold, and it reminds him of old silly memories of being back in school with classmates who’d wanted to calculate everything borrowed between friends, down to the exact number of binder paper sheets used for notes and quarters sacrificed to unforgiving vending machines. _Exchange_ doesn’t pair well with someone like Geonhak, who is warm and heartfelt in everything he does no matter how small the gesture is, who always gets the bill if Seoho’s not paying attention and brings Hyejoo a new hairband with a cute design adorning it nearly every time he sees her. 

“I thought we were friends, Geonhak,” Seoho says, holding a hand to his chest as he pretends to be hurt. He almost bursts out laughing because he catches the exact moment that Geonhak realizes he’s joking, the nervousness in Geonhak’s features yielding to a very clear irritation marked by the way his mouth curves into a lopsided smile-frown. “And here you are, treating genuine interactions between us like business transactions.” 

“Shut up,” Geonhak says. “You know that’s not how I mean it.” 

“How do you know that I know that’s not how you mean it?” Seoho says. “Communication is really important—” 

“...which you choose to be selectively good at,” Geonhak says, and Seoho purses his lips. 

“Everyone does, to an extent.” 

“So choose to be good at it now,” Geonhak wheedles, straightening up, “and show me the art Hyejoo has been speaking so highly of.” The muscles in his arm shift as he transfers his weight onto his other hip, elbow staying on the counter, and Seoho watches the movement with as much nonchalance as he can muster. 

“Suddenly you’re on your best behavior as soon as you want something,” Seoho says, and he pointedly ignores the spark of interest that flickers across Geonhak’s face at the fact that Seoho hasn’t said _no._ Geonhak leans in closer, eyes bright, and Seoho can practically see the puppy ears above his head perk up with enthusiasm. “Did she mention it after that one time at the tattoo shop?” 

“She tells me about it sometimes, when you’re off doing something like working or talking on a conference call,” Geonhak says. He clears his throat before he adds, “Hyejoo also said…” 

Seoho’s feeling generous today, and Geonhak seems to notice it too, when he realizes Seoho hasn’t gone prickly at the hint of a troublesome question emerging. “What did Hyejoo say?” 

“That after her mom left, you stopped drawing,” Geonhak says. “Am I allowed… to ask why?” 

“You’re allowed to ask me anything, but you’ll only get an answer if you drink some of my coffee,” Seoho teases, just to watch Geonhak grimace. The coffee brewer winds down, and when Seoho looks at the clear compartment where the water is stored, it’s empty. “A real exchange.” 

“That’s _mean_ ,” Geonhak says. His nose scrunches as he contemplates the idea, the cuteness of it making Seoho want to pocket it up in a little jar that he can open up every night before he sleeps. “Fine.” 

“Oh, we’re desperate,” Seoho remarks, and Geonhak grabs him, thumb digging into Seoho’s shoulder. It’s supposed to be a warning, but Seoho feels no threat at all, amused giggles bubbling out of him easily even as Geonhak gives him an exasperated look. 

“You sound the happiest when you’re bullying other people,” Geonhak says. “Does Hyejoo know about this?” 

“Yes,” Hyejoo says from behind him. She’s just come out of the shower, head towel wrapped precariously around her hair, one dark lock peeking out of the center. It makes her look like a flower with a leaf flopping over her forehead, and Seoho tells her as much, drawing a laugh out of her despite her still looking fairly sleepy. 

Seoho would tell her to go dry her hair quickly, but she likes to wait until the towel has soaked up most of the excess moisture so that she doesn’t drip water all over the bathroom floor tiles. He goes, instead, to open the cabinet above the sink, maneuvering his hand carefully around various containers of forgotten tea packets and miscellaneous kitchen tools before he finds what he’s looking for: the tin can of artisan hot cocoa powder that his sister had gifted him upon returning from her vacation in France nearly a year ago. Growing up, their family had never been the type to go on vacations abroad, but her husband loves traveling and makes enough money at his fancy tech job to support that passion. 

Hyejoo tugs at the sleeve of Geonhak’s maroon henley to draw his attention, and Geonhak gives it easily, lifting her onto the kitchen stool so that their eye levels can match up better. “Is that your real voice, Geonhak?” 

“Ah,” Geonhak says. Seoho’s so used to it now, the shift between Geonhak’s voices feeling so subtle in his mind that he hadn’t realized Geonhak was still making an effort to speak softer around Hyejoo. “Yeah.” 

“I could hear it through the floor, almost, when I was still in my room,” Hyejoo says, and that has Geonhak’s ears going pink even if they’re partially covered by his hair. It’s hard to figure out what exact things make him embarrassed, because Seoho has seen customers in the tattoo shop get friendly more than once, layering on the compliments while Geonhak just smiles at them, unaffected, but it might be that he’s more focused on doing his work well and not so much how he feels about what they’re saying to him in that moment. 

“Sorry,” Geonhak says. “Does it scare you?” 

“Nothing about Geonhak scares me,” she says, with zero hesitation. She’s not even looking at him when she says it, focused instead on what’s in Seoho’s hands, and she ends up missing the way Geonhak’s eyes go soft and affectionate at her casual affirmation. Hyejoo typically shrinks away when adults touch her, whether it’s a pinch of her cheek or a too-rough palm on top of her neatly tied hair, but she remains unconcerned and lets Geonhak delicately pull her in for a hug. “Hot chocolate?” 

“Yeah, chipmunk,” Seoho says. “The nice one from your auntie. Want some?” 

“Yes, please,” Hyejoo says, and Seoho picks a slightly larger pot than the one he was originally going to use, a necessary change now that he’s making hot chocolate for not one, but two servings. He leaves it on the stove, taking out milk from the fridge to pour into the pot before putting the milk carton back and turning the heat on. 

“When Daddy bought a bike for me,” she says, picking up where Geonhak and Seoho’s conversation left off, “he tricked me into thinking that I had to clean up the entire store that night before I could go home with it.” 

“Oh man _,_ ” Geonhak asks, chuckling. He’s pulled back from her and sat down on another kitchen stool, too, all while keeping his eyes on Hyejoo. That’s one of the things Seoho likes best about him, that Geonhak gives nothing less than his full attention whenever Hyejoo is talking, with the sort of doting sparkle in his eyes that seems to shine brightest in the presence of children. “So what happened?” 

“Daddy told me that they would pick me up and give me a uniform as soon as we finished checking out,” Hyejoo says. “And a broom.” 

Geonhak laughs harder, despite not knowing the end of the story yet. “What happened after check out?” 

“Daddy started taking the bike to the car, and I kept watching for the workers that would come get me,” Hyejoo says. “But then no one came, even when I waited, and then Daddy laughed at me for fifteen minutes.”

“Very evil,” Geonhak says. 

“I did not laugh at you for _fifteen_ minutes,” Seoho argues. The milk is starting to boil, frothing up at the sides. It’s going to be tedious to wash later, but Seoho doesn’t want to go to the effort of heating up milk in their steamer since making the hot chocolate was a last minute decision. “Maybe five, but not fifteen.” 

“Anyways,” Hyejoo says. “Daddy’s been a bully since the day I was born.” 

“Your memories in your first five years of life are probably foggy,” Seoho teases, and she makes an annoyed noise at him, only calming down when Geonhak pets at her hand. He takes out two clean mugs from the cabinet to the right over his head, then sets them down onto the counter. “I’ve only messed with you for three, almost four, technically speaking.” 

“That’s long enough,” Hyejoo replies. 

“Go blow dry your hair,” Seoho says. “It won’t take long, and your hot chocolate will be ready by the time you come back.” 

“Hot chocolate and coffee in one sitting? Didn’t expect that from you,” Geonhak remarks. He watches as Seoho turns the mugs so that both of their handles are facing the same direction, to the left, before he begins stirring in the hot cocoa mix. “Though... that’s exactly how I imagined you’d mix hot cocoa powder into milk. Scattering it across the surface in thin layers so that there are no lumps later.” 

“You’ve thought about how I’d mix hot cocoa?” Seoho asks. Geonhak pays too much attention to the things that don’t matter. “Does not much else go on in your brain, or…” 

“You’re so _annoying_ ,” Geonhak says. “You see me smiling through the pain, but that’s only because it means you’re in a good mood, and that’s rare.” 

“I’m always in a good mood,” Seoho says, with an arched eyebrow. “If you don’t want this anymore, feel free to keep on badmouthing me.” 

“Hmm?” Geonhak’s eyes go wide with realization, darting between the mugs and Seoho’s face. “Is the hot chocolate for me?” 

“I have two children to take care of now, so I made two cups of hot chocolate,” Seoho says mildly. He leaves the spoon in the larger mug, which has approximately the same volume of drink in it as the smaller mug from what he’d eyeballed pouring the hot milk earlier. “Seeing as the oversized one can’t drink coffee.”

“Forgive me,” Geonhak says, wrinkling his nose again, and Seoho doesn’t bother telling him that he’d never needed to in the first place. There are plenty of people Seoho knows who don’t drink coffee, or choose to destroy it with horrific amounts of add-ons like creamer and syrup, and even those whose stomachs get upset by it. 

And even if Seoho hardly ever admits it, to himself or anyone else, he’s inclined to forgive Geonhak far more easily than he’s inclined to forgive the average person. 

Seoho pushes the mug towards Geonhak. “Would you like me to add coffee?” he asks, smiling. “Free of charge.” 

“Mean,” Geonhak says, but he’s smiling back at Seoho. Seoho looks down when the brightness of it hits a little too hard, nudging at Geonhak’s hip with the back of his hand so he can open a drawer to get another small spoon for Hyejoo’s mug. “Will you still show me your art?” 

“I’ll think about it,” Seoho says. He’s glad that Hyejoo is still blow-drying her hair, or she’d tell Geonhak that strung together, those four words coming from Seoho are as good as a yes. 

✧ ✧ ✧

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ( p l s keep reading i promise it gets better lakjsdljklsdkf ) 
> 
> in the meantime pls leave a comment if you're enjoying it so far!!!!! : D ur kindness is much appreciated


	2. Chapter 2

✧ ✧ ✧ 

Hyejoo is staring at Seoho. 

She does that sometimes, when she’s eating hot oatmeal during breakfast or when she’s standing in the kitchen on cool evenings, watching him peel apples as a breeze makes its way through what little screen has been left exposed on their window. There’s not always a reason; it might be because she’s dropped food onto the floor by accident and is checking to see whether Seoho has seen her mistake, or that she’s bored. 

Seoho knows what happens next. He’ll turn his head, and she’ll ask him why he’s staring at her, and he’ll ask her in the sort of voice he knows she finds most annoying, how she knows he’s staring at her if she wasn’t staring at him first. 

“Daddy,” Hyejoo says, impatiently. Breaking the pattern. Seoho turns to look at her, and in the game of the current Candy Crush level she’s left unfinished, Yeti bobs up and down in the corner of the playboard with an enthusiastic rumbling noise as he waits for the next match of blue gems to be made. 

They’re at the supermarket, in the aisle where they keep the refrigerated appetizers, soup ingredients and pickled vegetables. No one is near them right now, so Seoho doesn’t feel too self conscious about stopping in the middle, although their shopping cart is already pretty far left in case anyone needs to pass by them. Hyejoo, as is characteristic of her, is standing with both feet inside of the square borders of a colored floor tile, remnants from an old game she used to play where she’d avoid all the white tiles which made up the majority of the floor’s square footage, and she’d only step on the yellow, green or blue ones. 

Seoho’d picked Hyejoo up from her afterschool club activities earlier, which involved her helping build and paint background sets and props for the school play that’s coming up. It’s been nice to see her explore what excites her in school and get praised for it, and seeing her make art is like allowing himself to live vicariously through her, since Seoho hasn’t picked up a pen to make anything other than corrections and edits for years. 

Seoho tilts his head. “What’s up?” 

“You showed your art to Geonhak,” she says, then slides her phone into the center pouch pocket of her hoodie. The drawstrings of the hood are uneven, and Seoho squats down to adjust them so that they’re the same length, ignoring Hyejoo’s nose scrunch of mild displeasure. She’s learning from Geonhak, these days. “Are you listening to me?” 

“Yes, I am,” Seoho says. Despite knowing it’ll be futile, he tucks a few of her baby hairs behind her ear and watches in amusement as they bounce right back, more defiant than ever. “And yeah, I did. Why?” 

It’s been two days since then. 

(Geonhak had watched closely with undivided interest as Seoho had brought out a stack of sketchbooks, then flipped through each page like it was going to break if he so much as breathed on it, peering at Seoho every now and then like he was going to be reprimanded for looking at something he wasn’t supposed to be seeing. 

“They’re beautiful,” he’d said, paired with the signature earnestness in his eyes that made Seoho more inclined to believe him than anyone else. Seoho had offered him a crooked smile in return, meant to be grateful but also leaning bitter enough for Geonhak to ask him why he’d stopped.

Seoho had explained, in as lighthearted of a tone as possible, “I needed to take care of Hyejoo, so I dropped out of the program I was studying in and started working full time as an editor.” 

“I see,” Geonhak had said in response. Seoho had avoided looking at Geonhak for fear of Geonhak sensing that this pipe dream had been a particularly painful one for him, but Geonhak had just continued to look through the sketchbooks, drawing circles with his thumb into Seoho’s clothed thigh absentmindedly all the while.) 

“Is…” Hyejoo puckers her lips as she trails off. Seoho can tell that she’s considering _how_ to ask and hasn’t forgotten whatever it is she wants to talk about, based on the way she furrows her brow while her mouth remains tense. If she were forgetting something, her first instinct would be to laugh and lean into him as soon as her mind goes blank. “Is Geonhak special?” 

“What do you mean?” 

Hyejoo makes a frustrated noise. “You get everything else,” she says, before pouting, and Seoho knows exactly what she means. He’s paid enough attention to her habits and mannerisms that he knows by heart the noise she makes whenever she wants a tissue and her mouth is too full, or the way her eyes waver, ever so slightly, when she’s still trying to figure out whether she likes the taste of something she’s eating. It’s rare that Hyejoo has to explain herself because Seoho, more often than not, can tell exactly what she’s thinking or what she wants just from a minor variation in her body language. 

“Geonhak is special, yes,” Seoho says, which is as honest of an answer as he can manage without having to tread in water where his feet don’t touch the bottom. Seoho has never learned how to stay afloat in place without swimming forward, and he thinks that his feelings toward Geonhak are a lot like that, apt to drown him if he tries to sit on them for too long. “I like that he treats you so well, and that you feel so comfortable around him.” 

“I knew that already,” Hyejoo says, annoyed. “You definitely don’t smile at Geonhak like how you smile at Wendy’s mom anymore. I mean...” 

“Yeah?” Seoho says. Despite the topic of conversation, it makes him smile that Hyejoo is still using his reaction to Wendy’s mom as a standard of measure for how much he likes other people. “You mean what?” 

“I wish he could be around all the time,” Hyejoo says. 

“I know, chipmunk,” Seoho says, putting both hands on her shoulders. He’s not sure whether she’s aware that her words have more depth than she intends, even if he pretends to brush them off at the surface. The implications of _all the time_ are so… meaningful, and he wonders bemusedly what Hyejoo’s seeing when she looks at the way Seoho and Geonhak interact. “Don’t you think you take up too much of his time and attention already?” 

“You take up more of it,” Hyejoo says. “You eat lunch with him, too, right?” 

“Not all the time,” Seoho says. “A few times a week, maybe.” 

“Hmph,” is all Hyejoo gives for a reply. She shoves her hands in her pockets, ready to go back to Candy Crush now that she’s out of her patience, and Seoho pulls lightly at one of her ponytails, enough to tease but not enough to mess it up or cause her any real discomfort. 

“You want him as a dad, instead?” Seoho jokes. “You’ll make me jealous.” 

Hyejoo takes her hands out of her pockets. They’re balled into fists at her sides, and Seoho plucks at her left hand until she lets him hold it, tension dissipating from her arm. 

“Not instead,” Hyejoo says, firmly. It surprises Seoho sometimes, the amount of conviction with which she speaks, but it always reminds him to be brave even in the moments where he feels small and easily destructible. “ _Too_. I want him as a dad, too.” 

Seoho’s eyes widen, and Hyejoo looks down at the ground. “That’s…” He sighs, too many thoughts swirling around in his head for him to settle on just one. He’s never heavily monitored what Hyejoo can or can’t watch on television or the Internet as long as there’s nothing too violent, but he’d never really thought about what to say in a situation like this. “You love him that much?” 

“Geonhak’s handsome, and nice, and he buys me fruit and animal shaped hair bands. He plays badminton with me, and even taught me cool tricks for basketball so I could show off at school,” Hyejoo says. She has two of the hair bands tied around her hair right now, with little plastic, lime green frogs that wobble any time she moves her head too abruptly. Seoho has to be careful when tying them because if he doesn’t snap them in place fast enough, they unravel and smack him hard enough to hurt for a few seconds. “But most importantly, you’re the happiest when he’s around.” 

Seoho’s chest feels so tight. 

“Nothing has to change for us to keep any of those things,” Seoho says. It’s hard for him because every time he considers being brave enough to...reach for what he wants, he remembers the consequences of getting attached and commitment that doesn’t always last. People leave, sometimes, whether it’s because they want to or because they need to, but Hyejoo’s no stranger to that. Seoho doesn’t think it’s necessary to bring up something so unpleasant. “Aren’t we fine like this?” 

“I guess,” Hyejoo says. “But we could be _more_ fine.” 

“And yet,” Seoho says, standing up. They’ll have to hurry it up with the groceries, or else he’ll have to eat dinner separate from Hyejoo later for his conference call. “I have my hands full with you, punk, so we’ll have to settle for being just fine.” 

“I want extra fishcakes, and lots of red tubes for the hot pot,” Hyejoo announces, _red tubes_ being Hyejoo language for crab sticks made out of white fish. She then promptly takes out her phone again, opening up Candy Crush to make that next blue match while Seoho starts pushing the shopping cart again, closing the lid on a box of emotions he keeps telling himself he’ll examine for real another day. 

✧ ✧ ✧ 

It’s a warm day. 

As usual, Seoho hadn’t been able to enjoy much of it, and his regular schedule had even been tossed overboard by an impromptu meeting he’d needed to schedule with Changmin because of rearranged deadlines that upper management and marketing teams hadn’t agreed upon properly. 

He would have been stuck in a difficult position since Changmin was traveling out of town and was only available in the early afternoon, right when Hyejoo needed to be picked up, but Geonhak had offered to pick Hyejoo up and keep her at the shop with Xion until Seoho could come over. Upon sensing Seoho’s reluctance to agree, Geonhak had said that he’d be asking for a favor in return when the time came for it, and that had pushed Seoho to finally say yes. 

Seoho had done his best to get to _Sapphire Sun_ as early as he could, not because he didn’t want her there for too long but because he hadn’t wanted to cause Geonhak and Xion any more inconvenience than necessary, and when he’d finally showed up nearly an hour after Hyejoo’s school let out, a tired but bright eyed Hyejoo had been waiting for him. She’d had a warm, thick men’s hoodie draped over her shoulders that made it look like she was being swallowed right up, legs dangling from the stool Xion had given her to sit on and a packet of half eaten frosted rice crackers next to her at the reception counter. 

“The AC is too strong, so Geonhak gave me his sweatshirt,” Hyejoo had explained, before telling Seoho it was okay that he couldn’t pick her up from school on time and to not say sorry. Seoho _had_ been planning on apologizing but he’d ruffled her hair in silent thanks, squatting down, and she’d headbutted him against his cheek, asking if he could make her milk tea when they got back home. 

“Seems like you were fed enough snacks here, though?” he’d said, teasingly, expecting her to whine that those didn’t count and she was still hungry. 

“It’s not the same as food or drinks made fresh by you,” she’d said, matter of factly, shoving the last of her rice cracker into her mouth and crumpling up the wrapper to throw away, while Seoho had stared after her in equal parts astonishment and affection. 

Now, it’s evening. 

Geonhak had dropped by after he closed up his shop, meaning just to deliver a notebook Hyejoo had forgotten there, but he’d ended up staying a little longer because of Hyejoo’s wide, puppy eyes paired with her quietly griping that she hadn’t gotten to see Geonhak very much earlier because he was so busy _working_. Seoho had known it was a stretch, considering Hyejoo would have had plenty of time to talk to Geonhak in the time that he was bringing her from the elementary school to the tattoo shop, but he’d just watched the way Geonhak visibly melted at her words, and Geonhak had then glanced at Seoho for permission before stepping inside and taking his shoes off. 

Upon Geonhak entering, Hyejoo had noticed that he was wearing only a muscle tank, having shed his outer layers because it was hotter outdoors than it had been in the tattoo shop, and promptly asked him, “Geonhak, can I touch your tattoos?” 

“Manners, Hyejoo,” Seoho had reminded her, and Hyejoo, not getting his point at all, had simply revised her question so that she was using _may_ instead of _can,_ then added a _please_ at the end of her question. 

With a laugh, Geonhak had told her that yes, she could, and then he’d sat down with her on the living room floor, smiling at her enthusiasm and answering all the questions that had come to her as she moved from piece to piece, including ones about insects and creatures she didn’t recognize and how long it’d take for a section of a tattoo to be finalized from start to finish. 

“Can I ask you something?” Geonhak asks, as Seoho emerges from Hyejoo’s room after making her brush her teeth and wash her face before he’d put her to bed. She hadn’t been pleased about having to sleep so early, but her eyelids had been drooping even before Geonhak had come over, and a wet, sloppy kiss on the forehead from Seoho was enough torture for her to become obedient almost instantly and duck under the covers to sleep for real. 

Seoho joins Geonhak in sitting on the living room floor. The hardwood is cool to the touch underneath his feet and palms, and he sits criss-cross at first before thinking better of it and pulling his knees up so that he can wrap his arms around his legs. 

“What is it?” 

There’s a historical documentary playing on the television screen, but every and any sound coming from it fades into the background completely as Seoho focuses on what Geonhak is trying to say and why he’s so hesitant. 

“I’m not…” Geonhak scratches lightly, at a spot on his arm that happens to be inside the outline of a bumblebee. His veins are particularly prominent, black ink following the raised contours of muscle and skin like rivers through the geography of rolling mountains. “I don’t mean that you’re not enough, when I say this, but…” 

“Did Hyejoo say something?” Seoho asks, raising an eyebrow. “I thought she looked kinda guilty all day, so she probably said too much as usual.” 

He thinks back to the conversation he’d had with Hyejoo in the grocery store a few days ago, and figures it has something to do with that, even if he’d made sure to explain to Hyejoo once they got home that things didn’t always work out like _that_ , and that Geonhak might be uncomfortable with hearing it even if it was a good thing in Hyejoo’s eyes to have him around _forever._

“ _Don’t you want him around forever, too?_ ” Hyejoo had asked him, and despite his usual efforts to be as honest with her as possible, Seoho had dodged answering the question and shooed her into her room so she could focus and do her homework while he made dinner. 

“Don’t blame her,” Geonhak says quickly. “You’re all she talks about whenever you’re not there.” 

Seoho bites his lip. It makes sense for Hyejoo to talk about him considering he’s the one person she spends all her time with outside of school and afterschool activities, but he still never quite gets used to being told that Hyejoo loves him from an outside perspective. He’s seeing someone else’s version of their relationship through the lens of a camera he has no control over, and it’s as moving as it is bizarre. 

“No regard for her dad’s image, as usual,” Seoho says, with no real bite to the complaint, and Geonhak smiles at him when he realizes Seoho isn’t genuinely upset. “Feel free to tell me whatever embarrassing thing she’s exposed about me, but I deny it in advance.”

“It’s nothing bad,” Geonhak says. 

“Because hearing ‘ _I don’t mean that you’re not enough,’_ isn’t ominous or anything,” Seoho says, and Geonhak laughs quietly into Seoho’s shoulder, apology lost to the fabric of Seoho’s crewneck. 

“I just wanted to make sure that you knew where I was coming from,” Geonhak says. “I know how you are with the other parents, how you get when people ask you questions with the intention to judge you before they’ve given you a chance.” 

“I know you’re different from them,” Seoho says. “Seeing as you’ve stuck around this long, for whatever reason.” Even if Geonhak was one of the tech startup employees who have swarmed this area in recent years, which make up much of the crowd that refuses to see success beyond the path they’ve chosen, pushing their children into pursuing extracurriculars in preparations for college admissions as early as elementary school, Seoho doesn’t think Geonhak would be anything like them. 

And Geonhak has had his fair share of judgment for having an unconventional lifestyle that really isn’t much different from anyone else’s except for the fact that he runs a tattoo shop downtown and does a wonderful job substituting for elementary school classes despite the way he looks. Seoho would have liked to meet more substitute teachers like Geonhak who weren’t old, cranky women looking for a bone to pick with children for being _children_ , although he does remember liking one particularly friendly substitute teacher, a younger woman with pink hair and an affinity for plaid scarves who hadn’t minded Seoho drawing blue dogs even if they didn’t match reality. 

“I stick around for Hyejoo, only,” Geonhak jokes, wrinkling his nose in amusement when Seoho rolls his eyes. “I’m kidding~” 

“The truth is that I let you stick around _only_ because she likes you,” Seoho says, and that has Geonhak grabbing him by the neck to tell Seoho to take it back and admit he likes Geonhak, too, even it’s only a fraction of Hyejoo’s adoration. “So what is it?” 

“Have you ever…” Geonhak pauses. He drops his hand from Seoho’s shoulder down to Seoho’s thigh, drawing small circles that slowly turn into big circles with every new loop into the cotton of Seoho’s pants. Seoho’s about to smack his hand, because it tickles, but then the circles turn into careful squares, as if Geonhak is attempting to compromise by bringing some orderliness catered to Seoho’s taste. “Hyejoo said that she worries about you being lonely, and that she wishes you could find…” 

Even with all the hemming and hawing, it’s not hard to see what Geonhak’s trying to get at. “Are you trying to ask whether I’ve thought about remarrying?” Seoho guesses, and Geonhak looks sheepish at having been seen through so easily for a moment before he nods, twice. 

“It wouldn’t have been difficult to find someone,” Geonhak says. Seoho has always found the tiniest hint of a lisp in his voice cute, but never brought it up in case Geonhak was self-conscious about it. “Considering your… looks, and how agreeable your personality is.”

Seoho snorts. _Considering your looks_ , he doesn’t address, but his heart wraps possessive claws around the phrase anyway, like it’s supposed to mean something significant when Geonhak gives heartfelt compliments of a similar nature to him and Hyejoo at least three times a day, if not four or five. That’s the problem with Geonhak; he’s so fucking _warm_ , even when Seoho’s brain is screaming at him in warning, that this is a star too hot to the touch for him to try and capture. “Agreeable? Are you sure you’re talking about the right person?” 

“It’s true,” Geonhak insists. “You’re agreeable when people get to know you, when they dig past the mean streak and frosty thing.” 

“I don’t particularly like being known as agreeable,” Seoho says, “so I don’t let people close enough for them to find that out.” 

“You let me,” Geonhak says. “Right?” 

“I did,” Seoho says. He’s not sure which one of them is more reckless: Geonhak, who knows next to nothing about Seoho’s past and has chosen to befriend him and his daughter anyway, or himself, for getting so _close_ when he’s always made sure to stay just detached enough that nothing would hurt when a connection was inevitably severed. “Although it’d be more accurate to say that you bulldozed your way into my life without giving me much of a choice.” 

“I gave you plenty of space to say no,” Geonhak says, and Seoho can’t argue with that. Messages that he never needed to reply to, phone calls he could have chosen to not pick up, invitations to eat together that Seoho could have pretended to be too busy to accept. “I just wanted… it helped, that you’re so softhearted on the inside.” 

“Am not,” Seoho retorts, and Geonhak looks like he’s about to come up with a counter argument, but Seoho beats him to speaking, and Geonhak is always the first to yield in conversation even if he likes to rile Seoho up just as much as Seoho likes to pick on him. 

“Marrying a second time, in theory, is supposed to be less scary because you’ve already done it once, right?” Seoho says, not really expecting an answer. He can tell Geonhak is listening closely, though, because Geonhak’s hands have stilled from their usual fidgeting and he’s matched up all five fingertips from his right hand to his left, spreading them wide apart without having his hands lose contact. His eyes, as expected, are on Seoho. “You’ve figured out what doesn’t work, so you must have a better idea of what _does_ work.” 

Geonhak hums. Waits. 

“I always wanted to be the person to get everything _right_ , since I was little,” Seoho says. It’s been a long time since he’s felt the stage fright that he associates with standing behind podiums and fancy microphones in too large classrooms filled with so, so many faces he doesn’t recognize, and he has to remember that Geonhak is just one person, who won’t think any differently of Seoho for stumbling on his words and being less than perfect. “I wanted to score 100 on everything, and I wanted to conquer the things that prevented me from succeeding. The subjects that I was doing poorly in, I only confronted even more ferociously until I was getting 100s in those, too. I didn’t care if I was climbing a mountain no one else was attempting, as long as I made it to the top.” 

“That…” Geonhak says. Rather than surprise in his facial features, it looks something more akin to enlightenment, like he’s found the last piece to complete a puzzle he’s been staring at for months. “Makes a lot of sense.” 

“Does it?” 

“Yeah,” Geonhak says. “Explains your stubbornness in making sure you get everything perfect, even the details. Even if it’s detrimental to your health in the moment.” 

“I guess so,” Seoho says. He doesn’t think about sleepless nights poring over ways to fix what had gone wrong, doesn’t think about the sacrifices he’d made to get, in the end, no result at all. Geonhak hasn’t known Seoho for as long as any of Seoho’s other friends have, but he already understands Seoho enough to recognize and pinpoint what drives him, and that’s a realization equally wonderful as it is frightening. “Whether it’s friendships or interests or whatever... It’s either all or nothing for me. I can’t half-ass anything because it wasn’t something I was okay with unless it was for something that really didn’t matter.” 

“Yeah,” Geonhak says. “I understand that.” 

“Only in life, there are battles you don’t win,” Seoho says. Geonhak is fast enough at hiding the alarm in his face that Seoho would have missed it if he didn’t catch the transition. “So you start to pick and choose which ones you take on, and then you don’t fight any battles at all, because you’re jaded and terrified of how much loss can hurt you.” 

He’d walked with great trepidation in the cold, wet snow, hoping that his footprints would leave a path worth following for the people he wanted to keep close and protect. Then when he turned back to see if they had kept up, there’d only been bloody footprints that stopped halfway and disappeared, streaks of strawberry coral painted off course in the pearly white of the snow that had kept piling on. Seoho had sank to his knees, devastation thick and suffocating enough to bury him even faster than the never ending layers of snowfall. 

“Seoho,” Geonhak says, sounding subdued. 

“When Seunghee and I separated, it felt like something was inherently wrong with me as a person. Like I’d somehow failed everyone’s expectations for me specifically, as an individual,” Seoho says. His usual nonchalance escapes him, and he wonders what Geonhak sees in its place. “Like a big red 0 had been written on an exam I’d studied a month straight for.” 

“Relationships don’t work like that,” Geonhak says. He swallows, as if something’s stuck in his throat. Seoho has never been able to mobilize empathy on command the way Geonhak seems to, but he’s probably better off that way, otherwise he’d be absorbing every single person’s emotions on top of his own, which are already overwhelming enough on good days. “You can’t blame yourself for not being to fix something that’s supposed to be a two way street.” 

So many times, Seoho’s given advice in the same vein. To Hyojin, when he’d been heartbroken over a girl who’d decided she was never invested in their relationship to begin with. To his mother, in the moments she’d felt distraught over Seoho’s sister snapping at her when she was just trying to voice her concerns for her daughter’s safety. Seoho, logically, knows some things aren’t worth hurting himself over and over again for, but he’s never been good at _not_ taking things personally no matter how much he pretends to be unaffected on the exterior. 

“It’s like a practical exam, a group one,” Seoho says, with a bitter laugh. “The sort of thing I’d be carrying the rest of my group through if they didn’t know what they were doing, which was more often than not the case.” Before there’s a pause long enough to make Geonhak feel like he has to reply, Seoho adds: “It’s clear at this point, probably, that I lost a lot of faith in everything, in myself. People wanted me to pick up another plate when I’d already broken the first five, that’s what it felt like, but maybe it’s my fault that people couldn’t tell how scared I was of fucking up again.” 

“It’s okay,” Geonhak says. Seoho doesn’t feel like crying. He rarely does even if he’s talking about difficult things, and yet, two simple, generic words combined with the weight of solid fingers curling around his neck, thumbing at his hair makes the corners of his eyes go hot. Growing up hasn’t changed Seoho at all, it’s only worn away at him, because he still holds in the frustration and anxiety and fear until the second someone touches him, and that’s when all of those feelings pour forth, an undesirable flood that often triggers a physical one, too. “It’s okay, Seoho.” 

“I never cared about being normal,” Seoho says. He turns to stare at Geonhak’s face, so that his eyes can trace the sharp, neat curves of Geonhak’s small, defined nose and the cat-like lines of his eyelids despite his gaze remaining too soft, too open to make that feline, intimidating trait run consistent throughout the rest of him. “I’m not afraid of loneliness either, because I’d rather be alone than have someone be miserable in my presence.” 

Geonhak’s eyes narrow thoughtfully, and Seoho wonders which words of his Geonhak’s brain has zoned in on. How much of the way Geonhak navigates his interpersonal relationships is out of desire rather than a sense of duty or detached but required interest. If Geonhak finds it easy to live a life breaking predisposed ideas of normal and sensible things to be as an adult. If he struggles with finding a satisfactory middle between people’s expectations of him and his personal beliefs every morning the way Seoho does. 

“Normal only means something if you’re basing your self worth on what other people think of you,” Geonhak says. “And you don’t strike me as the kind of person who measures your worth on the reassurances of other people alone.” 

“I thought that, too,” Seoho says. “But I worried... about what it would mean for Hyejoo, to go from having her mom and me, to just me. Whether it would be enough.” 

“It is,” Geonhak says. “You are. Always.” 

“Some days, I agree,” Seoho says. “Other days, I think this is both my way of rebelling and conforming.” 

Geonhak hums, the sound lilting up at the end in a question. A careful, inquisitive push for more information. 

“Rebelling because I’m spiteful of everyone who wants to pitch in with advice when I never asked for it,” Seoho explains. “Conforming because I want to keep up the image of being indestructible as long as I can manage even if there are too many holes for me to fix it, because I’m not strong enough to say anything I’m actually thinking to the parents and staff at school who say whatever they want even if we’re within hearing range.”

He laughs, and it comes out a little broken, a bit chipped at the sides. Geonhak is definitely going to notice, because he always notices the things that Seoho doesn’t even register about himself, too preoccupied with building the walls of his castle higher even as the foundation at the base of those walls starts to crumble.

“Some battles you choose not to engage in,” Geonhak says, “not because you’re not strong enough, but because you’re tired, and because you have other bigger battles to win.” 

_I wish you’d get angry,_ Seunghee had said to Seoho, as he’d quietly listened to her complain to him about everything she had to deal with, everything she had to sacrifice in order for him to chase _silly pipe dreams_. She’d told him that he liked to play the good guy by remaining silent. That by withdrawing, he could get away with so much while she was the only one suffering in their marriage, despite the fact that Seoho had barely slept in order to make up for what he was taking from her for months and she’d never, ever cared. 

“Is it selfish, though?” 

“To not engage?” Geonhak asks incredulously, and slowly, hesitantly, Seoho nods. 

“You’re a little mean, sometimes, and stubborn, and you like to nag whether it’s for fun or for real,” Geonhak says. Seoho wants to scowl at him, but he doesn’t have the energy. Everything Geonhak says is true, too, so there’s no point in denying any of it. “But never selfish, only secretly charitable in everything that you do, and even then, that doesn’t make it any more logical or worthwhile for you to confront the things that will only make you fall apart, does it?”

Seoho makes a noise of frustration, and Geonhak watches him for a moment. 

“You’re so hard on yourself,” Geonhak says, eventually. “You’re going to break like that.” 

“Maybe I already did,” Seoho says, and Geonhak frowns at him, like he doesn’t know how to make things better. It’s not his job, anyway, and he’s already doing phenomenally compared to other people, considering it’s the first time in years Seoho has allowed himself to be so verbose about lingering emotions that feel too raw and too ugly inside of him. “Is that what it’s going to take? Breaking into a million pieces before I can feel whole again?” 

“I don’t think that’s how it works,” Geonhak says, with a smile that’s much too wistful to be merely an extension of his sympathy. There’s experience in that smile, and it makes Seoho wonder what Geonhak is hiding behind it, because Geonhak is talkative, sure, but Seoho doesn’t actually know much about him beyond the stories about Geonhak’s more interesting clients and the few interests outside of tattooing, children, and working out Geonhak has mentioned in passing. 

“Thank you,” Seoho says later, when Geonhak prepares to go home, lingering in front of the door. The jewelry between Geonhak’s cartilage and earlobe piercings are connected into one piece, dainty silver chains swinging when he shifts his body weight to put on his other shoe. 

“For what?” 

“For not thinking I’m selfish, I guess,” Seoho says. 

“You shouldn’t,” Geonhak says. Then his eyebrows pinch together, giving him that signature worried expression his eyes naturally default to, and Seoho’s heart pinches in perfect sync with the movement even as he reminds himself not to fall now, not ever. “I hope you don’t see yourself as broken either, because you’re not.” 

“What am I, then?” Seoho asks. It’s a joke, and he expects Geonhak to laugh it off, not stare at Seoho like he’s actually trying to answer it. Geonhak is so earnest sometimes that it hurts Seoho just watching him, because he’d lost that earnestness when he was barely twenty two, tired of people who wanted him to suffer in silence while giving credit to the ones making the most noise. 

Then Geonhak’s eyes go twinkly, and he says teasingly, “Tired.” Lifting his hand, he straightens out Seoho’s fringe. “Are you going to bed soon?” A pause. “There’s only one answer to that, and it’s yes.” 

“Sure,” Seoho says, tone evasive, then laughs when Geonhak reaches out to gently pinch his arm. “I will, I will, don’t worry.” 

“I’m okay with worrying about you if I can see you,” Geonhak says. He lets his hand slide down Seoho’s arm and then he’s intertwining their fingers, probably forgetting that it’s not Hyejoo he’s talking to, but a fragile, exhausted Seoho. “But don’t let me worry in the moments I’m not there to stop you from being reckless.” 

When Geonhak does finally leave, Seoho figures he could afford following Geonhak’s advice for once. His brain’s a little in the gutter anyways after spilling his soul out like that to Geonhak, who’d taken everything in stride and much better than Seoho had expected. He’d seemed a little sad, that he couldn’t make things better for Seoho, but not dumbfounded like some of Seoho’s friends get on the rare occasion he overshares, as if they’re watching an unsinkable ship sinking without any way of saving it. 

Seoho considers the smile on Geonhak that had seemed out of place with his usual ones, closer in resemblance to the sort of smile Seoho reserves for visits to his sister or mom where they ask him how he’s holding up, and he wonders if Geonhak will tell him more about his time training as an apprentice in Seoul. If he asks nicely, Geonhak probably would oblige him, even if he’s been vague about it so far. 

With a fleeting glance at the stack of papers on his coffee table, Seoho is filled with a sense of relief that they’ve become tomorrow’s problem, and heads to the bathroom to brush his teeth. 

✧ ✧ ✧ 

Hyejoo has a sleepover. 

Yerim’s mother’s gaze is pleasant as she watches Seoho adjust Hyejoo’s hood so that the inside fabric isn’t turned outwards, while Yerim and a few other girls from Hyejoo’s class gather on the porch to watch too, excitement radiating out of the entire group at Hyejoo’s arrival. It has Seoho defrosting slightly, less on edge even though he’s already well aware that Yerim’s mother stays out of gossip and doesn’t seek it out either. She has more of a neutral personality, which he’s seen come into play when Wendy’s mother tries to lure her into conversation and Yerim’s mother simply smiles at her, choosing not to encourage the negativity. Based on how out of the loop she is, he wouldn’t be surprised if she didn’t even know about him being a single parent, but Seoho isn’t all that fixated on whether she’s aware of that fact or not since it doesn’t change anything in the end. 

“If you’re uncomfortable or want me to come for any reason, feel free to call, okay?” Seoho says, and Hyejoo nods vigorously, ponytails bouncing with the movement as she waves her phone in confirmation that she understands the full extent of what he’s telling her. 

He’d texted Geonhak yesterday, about the change in Hyejoo’s schedule and that their weekly dinner plans were no longer on, to which Geonhak had accepted easily. 

That’s why he’s surprised when he’s about to get in his car and his phone lights up with a call from Geonhak, ringtone playing obnoxiously in the tune of an American pop song Hyejoo had picked for him when he first got this phone. It’s not like Seoho to leave something unideal like that unchanged for so long, but he’s never quite been able to actually go through with changing it for sentimental reasons. 

Geonhak’s connection isn’t very good, but Seoho can hear him just fine the moment he says, “You said Hyejoo was going to be spending time with friends?” 

“A sleepover, to be more specific,” Seoho says, and Geonhak hums as he listens. “Well, they’re going to watch a play, or something, and then they’re going back to her friend’s house to have the sleepover.” 

“Oh? That’s unusual,” Geonhak says. “Hyejoo usually spends all her time with you, as long as you’re home.” 

“I was against it, but it’s with a friend she’s really close with, whose birthday is coming up next week,” Seoho says. Hyejoo hadn’t been very demanding about it since she doesn’t throw tantrums, just pouts at Seoho every possible opportunity she gets when she really wants something until he buckles and gives in to her requests. This time, it hadn’t taken long for him to give her permission. 

After all, she doesn’t ask for much on a regular basis, and Seoho doesn’t want to be overprotective to the point where Hyejoo can’t socialize to her heart’s content with her closest friends from school. “So, yeah.” 

“‘So, yeah,’” Geonhak mimics Seoho’s voice, too, and Seoho snorts. “Why are plans cancelled, then? Do you have something else planned? A hot date?” 

“A hot date—” Seoho sighs. “Both you and Youngjo must have jellybeans in your brains.” Only Geonhak must be doing it on purpose; Seoho had heard the way his voice had gone flat with those last two words, like he wasn’t sure whether he wanted to be saying something like that out loud. 

“Youngjo?” Geonhak echoes with interest. “Who’s that?” 

“A coworker I’m close to,” Seoho says. It’s interesting that he can _hear_ the curiosity even if he can’t see it, although he’s not sure whether that’s just because of all the time he’s spent with Geonhak. Observing, absorbing habits and mannerisms that aren’t his own. “Well, kind of.” 

“Tell me about him, when you come over for dinner,” Geonhak says, tossing the invitation out like he doesn’t care one way or the other. 

“Hyejoo’s…” 

“...going to be annoyed to some extent, probably, if she finds out,” Geonhak says. His voice curls with amusement at the words _finds out._ “But her not being here doesn’t mean we can’t still hang out.” 

“Oh,” Seoho says. This is new. Not _new_ new, considering he’s met up with Geonhak plenty of times for a (relatively) quick lunch together, at a time of day where Hyejoo’s in school, but anything else like dinner or shopping adventures on the weekends always include her. 

“You only tolerate me because Hyejoo likes me,” Geonhak says. “I see how it is.” 

Seoho laughs, all air and no real tone to it because he’s in disbelief. “That’s definitely not how it is.” He laughs again, this time more audible, and Geonhak goes on to mumble something again too low and fast for Seoho to catch properly. “Don’t put words into my mouth, Geonhak.” 

“It’s fine, I’m just stating the sad, hard truth for myself,” Geonhak says, with a sigh of faux disappointment, and he chuckles when Seoho tells him to _shut up._ In the background, there’s a clink of metal. A rustle of fabric. Geonhak must be at the tattoo shop, still, and the intimacy of hearing what he’s doing, as minute as the gestures are, has Seoho examining his nails while he waits for Geonhak to speak into the phone again. “Do you have anything in particular you want to eat?” 

“No,” Seoho says, struck by a faint wave of sudden nerves because he’s never been to where Geonhak’s lived. Hadn‘t really considered, or even allowed himself to imagine what kind of space Geonhak existed in during the hours he wasn’t working, working out, or spending time with Hyejoo and Seoho. As silly as it sounds, as ineffective as it’s proven already, Seoho had remained hopeful that keeping some sort of boundary on how much they knew about each other would help him keep his feelings more at bay. “Whatever’s fine.” 

“I’ll take the liberty of figuring something out, then,” Geonhak says. “Will you bring apples to cook, please?” 

“One child to feed dessert to, even though the other one is away,” Seoho jokes, and Geonhak makes an annoyed whine that has Seoho’s insides twisting at how cute it sounds. “Do you have cinnamon?” 

“Yes~” Geonhak says, drawing the sound of it out. “I’ll be done closing up shop in half an hour, but I’ll text you my apartment address. Does 6:30 work?” 

“Yes,” Seoho says, and gets into the car after they finish their call and hang up. 

The first thing Seoho notices about Geonhak’s apartment are the printouts of photos and various illustrative designs spread out all over Geonhak’s coffee table. Some papers are on the floor, too, but there aren’t too many of them, and Seoho resists the mild urge to pick them up. Geonhak has probably left them there for a good reason. “Are you working on something?” 

“There’s a convention, that’s coming up in a few weeks,” Geonhak says. “For tattoo artists.”

When Seoho looks at Geonhak, he’s reminded of what he’d really noticed first and foremost before he shoved the observation out of his brain to focus on other things: Geonhak in a loose black turtleneck with thin white stripes, and soft slacks that cling to the curves of his legs in all the right ways. 

Geonhak’s hair is up today, undercut freshly buzzed, teal coloring refreshed. Seoho had reached out to touch it, earlier, when Geonhak was first letting him in, and Geonhak had beamed at him before asking Seoho if it looked nice. “ _Feels fuzzy, and looks like the ocean_ ,” Seoho had told him, before nodding in agreement that _yes_ , _it did look nice._ Then he’d concentrated on taking off his shoes to avoid thinking about the way Geonhak’s eyes had immediately gone soft and sappy, to avoid letting Geonhak find out how much he’d gotten to Seoho despite Seoho being so hard to defrost for everyone else. 

“Wow,” Seoho says, squatting down to take a closer look. “What are you going to be doing, exactly?” 

Geonhak hums. “My friend somehow signed me up to attend and give a few talks, too,” he explains, shaking his head like he can’t believe his friend had inflicted such hardship on him, but it’s clear that he’s not too bothered by it. Then he smiles at Seoho knowingly, and Seoho gives him a confused look. “You can straighten out the sheets if you want, but try to keep them in the general same order that I have them in.” 

“I wasn’t going to do anything,” Seoho says. 

“You _look_ like you want to rearrange them,” Geonhak says. “Remember that time you found the sorting on one shelf in the bookstore had been messed up by customers throughout the day, and you stopped browsing just to put the books in their proper places?” 

“Everything was sticking out and it looked bad,” Seoho says. He’d only arranged it based on what he was observing from the original shelving patterns of the other sections, and he doesn’t think he fixed everything in the end, but it’d been acceptable by the time he was done. “And I didn’t take that long.” 

“I know,” Geonhak says. His voice is always thick, naturally, but the fondness in those two words makes it feel like Seoho can’t extricate himself from them, hands dipped into a honey that refuses to be scraped off and even clutches at him when he tries to stand. “You never inconvenience other people even when you’re indulging yourself in fixing things.” 

Seoho straightens one sheet, just so that the long side of it is parallel to the wooden planks in the flooring. It pleases him enough that he smiles to himself, and Geonhak laughs. “Just one.” 

“Just one,” Geonhak agrees, lowering himself to pick up the bag of apples Seoho has set down next to him. “Have you had okonomiyaki before?” 

They eat dinner as they make it, Geonhak grilling the savory pancakes made up of cabbage, meat and flour batter, while Seoho makes the sauce according to Geonhak’s clear instructions. Seoho teases Geonhak about the residue left on all of his sauce bottles even if it’s not as bad as what he’s seen from Hyojin’s fridge, back when Hyojin was still living in the same state as him, and his sister’s. Then Seoho wipes them all clean after he’s done making the sauce, except for the sesame oil, because there’s no hope for any container storing sesame oil. 

In a rare moment of spontaneity, Seoho takes a picture of himself posing with a plate full of well browned okonomiyaki to send to Hyejoo, egging her on about what she’d missed by going to the sleepover. 

_Look at what Geonhak made for me, chipmunk~_

“You’re insufferable,” Geonhak says, keeping an eye on the stove even as he remains well aware of what Seoho’s doing. He knows Seoho’s up to no good based on the fact that Seoho never takes selfies for his own satisfaction, consistently more motivated by his plans to stir up trouble or push someone else’s buttons, but he’s smiling. 

“And yet,” Seoho says. “You’ve invited me into your home and have even chosen to make food for me. Which one of us gets the shorter end of the stick? Not me.” 

Geonhak laughs, turning the heat underneath the pan containing a mid-cooked pancake to low. “You want to send her a picture of us together?” he asks, after resting his spatula on the clean plate he has on the kitchen counter and approaching Seoho, who’s sitting at the dining table. 

On guard now, Seoho straightens up slightly, setting the plate down. Geonhak’s not as prone to mischief as he is, since he’s the one fending off Seoho’s bullying antics most days, but it doesn’t mean he doesn't occasionally think about messing around. “Why would I do that?” 

“Just ‘cause,” Geonhak says, and then he’s pulling Seoho into a headlock and mashing their cheeks together. He smells like laundry detergent and something else citrusy that might be from his body wash because it’s a scent that always lingers on him, and his hair tickles Seoho’s cheek. The coldness of the beaded bracelet on his wrist makes Seoho want to shrink back a little when it touches his neck, but there’s nowhere for him to escape and Geonhak is warm everywhere else. 

“What if I just don’t take the picture,” Seoho asks, but he pulls up the camera app again and presses the circle at the bottom of his phone screen enough times to hopefully get _one_ good picture. 

By some odd stroke of luck, all of the photos are good. Seoho makes an impressed noise, after Geonhak is so kind as to free him from the half chokehold of his thick arm and gives Seoho a chance to check his camera roll. The lighting and quality aren’t anything remarkable, but their faces look...happy, and even if Seoho usually hates the way his face comes out in photos, flattened and dulled down into someone he doesn’t recognize, he really likes these. He swipes between the various versions multiple times back and forth before he finally decides on the best one and sends that one to Hyejoo. 

“You’re very photogenic,” Seoho observes, licking his lips idly as he glances up at Geonhak. Takes in the small open mouthed smile on Geonhak’s face, one corner pulled slightly higher, and the soft curve of his eyes as he watches Seoho. It’s always been obvious that Geonhak’s objectively handsome, but Seoho’s tendency to focus on people piece by piece and learn about them in hyperconcentrated areas has him neglecting the big picture until he’s forced to take a step back and reevaluate, either by chance or on purpose. “But you don’t post that many photos of yourself.” 

Geonhak’s ears flush red at the outer edges, warm color diffusing softly downwards. “I’m not that comfortable with it.” 

“Hard to imagine, considering you were the one who just headlocked me to get pictures of us together,” Seoho says teasingly, even though it makes sense. Geonhak’s social media doesn’t contain much other than pictures of occasional client work and landscape scenery from his trail workouts. 

“I wanted to take the chance before I lost it,” Geonhak says, but he doesn’t clarify any further even when Seoho gives him a puzzled look. “Will you send me the photos?” 

“Yeah,” Seoho says. 

_No fair_ , Hyejoo’s texted back when Seoho looks at his phone again. _I want Geonhak to make me okonomiyaki, too._ Then in comes a photo she’s sent of herself and Yerim, both grinning widely at the camera. They’re standing somewhere well lit and fancy, a city square, maybe, where the trees have been decorated with soft, yellow ornament lights, and the sky is darkening, making the lights even more gorgeous despite how blurry they are. 

_Are you having fun?_ Seoho asks her, before switching contacts and pulling up his text history with Geonhak, sending all of the photos to him. 

_Yes,_ she replies. A minute later, she adds: _Have fun on your date, Daddy._

Seoho smiles, despite himself. He can imagine the look on her face as she types the words, smug and playful, because she takes after him in so many ways with her personality traits, both bad and good. 

_Not a date~_

_Geonhak told me he doesn’t like flowers_ , Hyejoo sends. _But he likes your cooked apples. So make those for him._

“Did she reply?” Geonhak asks, when Seoho pockets his phone and refuses to be teased any further by his own daughter. Seoho would have tossed the phone across the room, but that would have required an explanation, and he’s just glad that Geonhak remains standing where he is in case Geonhak’s body is temperature sensitive enough that he notices the heat rolling off of Seoho’s cheeks. Geonhak tilts his head, pancakes sizzling noisily behind him. “What did she say?” 

“That she wanted you to make her some,” Seoho says, and Geonhak grins at him, pleased, boyish. Seoho wants to put that smile in between the middle of a particularly delightful book, so that he can turn to that very page and press close to the smell of paper and affection and happiness blending together whenever he wants to remember what it’s like to try and catch his breath thinking about Kim Geonhak. 

“You do this thing,” Geonhak says, when Seoho’s quieted down later, after telling an anecdote about a run-in with a particularly pesky writer who’d wanted to stop working with him but flags him down for conversation any time he finds Seoho outside of work. Before that, he’d talked a little bit about Youngjo, just to give Geonhak an idea of who his longtime colleague was, and because Geonhak had asked again. Seoho stirs the remaining mix of sauce, watching the little tiny bubbles of sesame oil twinkle under the dining room ceiling light. “With your face.” 

“I do a lot of things with my face,” Seoho says, and Geonhak lets out an exhale-laugh, the one that means he thinks Seoho’s ridiculous but he’s going to humor him anyway. Geonhak is always patient like that, letting Seoho talk over him in petty arguments that don’t actually mean anything and are just ways for Seoho to make Geonhak laugh by throwing out increasingly ridiculous justifications for whatever Geonhak’s done “wrong.” 

“No,” Geonhak says. “When you do the…” 

“The words with which you speak are eloquent, today,” Seoho interrupts with. He knows it’ll get a visceral reaction out of Geonhak, and he’s right because Geonhak grabs him by the shoulder immediately, making Seoho cackle. 

“Shut up and listen to me,” Geonhak says. 

“I’m trying,” Seoho says, pitching his voice higher and making Geonhak’s eyes narrow even further, “but there’s this almost unbearable pain in my shoulder that impairs my ability to hear—” Geonhak lets go of him then, cutting a warning glance at Seoho even as his lips twitch, and Seoho grins at him. 

“Did you know that when you find something genuinely amusing,” Geonhak says, “you scrunch your nose, but the scrunch line on the… my left, but your right side is higher?” 

He says it all bright-eyed, like he’s made an important discovery worth gracing the news headlines, when it’s a little quirk of Seoho’s expressions that Seoho is sure wouldn’t matter to anyone else, except maybe Hyejoo. Geonhak’s eyebrows pinch together highest in the center, which would make anyone else look sad but just makes him look even cuter, even more youthful, and Seoho doesn’t know what to do with the affection that’s threatening to burst out of him at the seams. 

“Why do you notice stuff like that,” Seoho says, instead, and he hates that the stifled tone of his voice comes out more embarrassed than displeased. The shine in Geonhak’s eyes doesn’t diminish, not one bit, and Seoho… wants… to lean in, to see if that heat and undeniable brightness will transfer over to him, too, at the right proximity. “That’s stuff only writers pay attention to.” 

The sort of thing that Hwanwoong takes notes on in the middle of conversations, pushing up his glasses before he flips to a new page in his worn out notepad, the corners grayed with whatever dirt’s in his bag and folded in a way that makes Seoho want to iron it out every time he sees it come out. 

“Are writers the only people capable of using their eyes?” Geonhak asks. “I notice lots of things about you, anyway, even if you don’t reveal much about yourself.” 

“I know,” Seoho says. He’s not as fixated on Geonhak’s ability to figure him out as he is puzzled by _why,_ but asking for that, as minute as it seems, would be enough to set off an avalanche of emotions forceful enough to bury Seoho in its depths within less than a second. “Because you’re a nosy puppy—” 

“I’m going to hit you,” Geonhak says, though he doesn’t even lift his hand. “I’m not a dog.” 

“Not a dog, but I see the floppy ears, sometimes,” Seoho says, and conveniently, Geonhak makes a low irritated growl at him. “Ooh. See that? You’d make a great Husky. Noisy, too.” 

“I really am going to hit you,” Geonhak says with more vigor. Seoho shrugs, completely unafraid, but he ducks out of the way when Geonhak stands to lean over and grab him with both hands, laugh turning into a shriek when Geonhak succeeds in getting a hold of him and shakes him in punishment. 

Seoho’s mean streak softens after that, the atmosphere between them settling into something quiet and comforting as Geonhak washes a portion of the dishes and gives Seoho reign over the stove now that they’ve packed up the leftovers and it’s time for cooked apples. 

_Geonhak doesn’t like flowers_ , Hyejoo had said earlier. _But he likes…_

Seoho had shoved the words not just towards the back of his mind but _out_ of it entirely, mostly sure that he would be able to keep it that way for the rest of the night. He’s nothing if not stubborn. Despite his resolve, however, Hyejoo’s smug tone of voice is coming out on top in a fight against Seoho’s ever weakening denial, and Seoho remains only vaguely aware of the last utensil being put away into the dishwasher to dry, the faucet being turned off, and hands drying themselves off in the kitchen towel that hangs on the oven’s handlebars. 

Seoho doesn’t realize Geonhak’s approached him from behind until there’s a hand propped against the kitchen counter and Geonhak’s leaning into his space, their hips bumping into each other. “Need help with anything?” Geonhak asks. 

Seoho’s throat feels dry, and he swallows. His composure is hanging on for dear life like the ongoing apple peel curling down to the cutting board in a half-helix from the apple Seoho’s currently holding in his hands. One nick in the wrong angle, and the peel will break.

“I’m good,” he says, nudging Geonhak’s cheek with his head so that Geonhak will back up.

“What’s wrong?” 

“I have a knife in my hands,” Seoho says, like that’s the only reason he doesn’t want Geonhak standing so close, before he’s resolutely infusing nonchalance into his voice as he continues with, “Tell me about the convention. Are you going to be the best tattoo artist there?” 

“Haha.” Out of the corner of Seoho’s eye, he can see Geonhak fiddling with the rings on his fingers. Geonhak doesn’t always wear rings but on the days that he chooses to, he wears silver ones, typically, and has two on each hand. For his right hand, his middle and ring fingers. On his left hand, his index and ring fingers. “You’re flattering me.” 

“Am not,” Seoho says. “Your art is… I didn’t tell you, I guess.” 

“Probably not,” Geonhak says. His brows furrow. “Seeing as I have no idea what you’re about to say.”

“Your art made me want to start again,” Seoho says. He scoops the core halves out of the apple, once he’s sliced the apple into two pieces. “Drawing.” 

Naturally, it’s motion in the midst of everything else’s stillness that’s supposed to get Seoho’s attention, but he very precisely registers the moment Geonhak freezes, fingers paused on his rings. Geonhak doesn’t reply for a few seconds, those few seconds then stretching into half a minute, and Seoho turns to look at him to see what has kept him silent for so long. 

“...Really?” Geonhak says, and Seoho resumes chopping the apple halves into four pieces each, dropping them into the clean pot on the right front stove burner along with the other two apple’s worth of slices already in the pot. Geonhak hands Seoho the cinnamon wordlessly, and Seoho sets his knife down as he dusts an even coating of the spice across the first layer of apple slices so that it’ll be easier to mix. “You never told me that.” 

“It was a given in my head, how talented you were,” Seoho says. “I think I just forgot to say it out loud.” 

“A given—” Geonhak repeats, before laughing in disbelief. “I’m always so taken aback when you give compliments.” 

“You say that like I never give them,” Seoho says, nose scrunching, before he’s reminded of Geonhak’s observation from earlier and his cheeks are going warm because of it. Asymmetry is something that Seoho doesn’t particularly like in faces, but Geonhak, with his horribly bright eyes and shy smile and carefully thought out remarks about _which side of Seoho’s nose scrunches higher_ , has made Seoho discover new value in his own features, like he’s the main character of a morning cartoon special with cheesy themes of self-love and diversity of beauty. 

Seoho might be stingy with praise when it comes to everyone else, but Geonhak gets so embarrassed by genuine forms of it that Seoho sometimes compliments him just to watch Geonhak’s ears turn red as he hides his face behind the palms of his hands. “I say nice things to you all the time,” Seoho adds. “Do you have oil?” 

Geonhak tilts his head. “Do you want coconut oil?” 

“You have that?”

“I know you use it,” Geonhak says. There’s not much space to move around too much in the kitchen, especially not with two people in it, and he puts both hands on Seoho’s shoulders as he passes Seoho to lean down and open a cupboard different from the one where he’d gotten the cinnamon. He grabs the correct jar and places it on the counter next to the cutting board Seoho is using. “So I started using it too, in case you came over. And it smells nice.” 

“That’s cute,” Seoho says, and Geonhak studies him for a moment before realizing Seoho means it, which is when he smiles. “Were you going to say something before?” 

“Some compliments are because you know I’m waiting for them,” Geonhak says, as Seoho takes a small chunk of the half solid, half gloop and lets it drop into the pot. Luckily, Geonhak’s apartment building has better ventilation and temperature control built into its design, or else the coconut oil would just be translucent liquid at this time of year, especially considering the heat that’s starting to come too early for Seoho’s liking. “Like, you mean them, always, but you know what to say because you can tell I care.” 

“So what’s the other type?” Seoho asks. “Ones you think I don’t mean?” 

“No.” Geonhak scratches at the junction between his jaw and his earlobe, lightly. “The other type is casual, but they’re…” He pouts, pausing again as he thinks. “It’s like you don’t think about how much they mean even when you’re using the best combination of words possible, and hearing them is like getting bowled over by a giant mascot.” 

“Sounds painful,” Seoho says. “Maybe I should stop giving you compliments, to protect your well being.” 

“ _No,_ ” Geonhak protests. “The mascot is _soft,_ so it’s fine. But…” he leans over to look at the apple slices, now mixed enough that they all have a consistent layer of cinnamon speckled over them. The bottom of the pot sizzles. 

“What is it?” 

“Why don’t you start again?” Geonhak asks. “Your art.” He sees the look on Seoho’s face, and laughs. “I know _why_ , but it’s not like you have to give it up forever. You could still have it in small amounts, in bits of your free time. Your stuff is so nice that I’d… I’d want to see more of it, especially now that you’ve told me my work inspired you, too.” 

“I don’t know,” Seoho says. Geonhak is close enough that Seoho can feel the breath from Geonhak’s words against the side of his own face. “It’s a lot to consider.” 

“One step at a time,” Geonhak says. His gaze is hopeful, and Seoho thinks destiny’s a trickster, for pairing him up with a man who always thinks of the best possible thing that could happen while Seoho always expects the worst case scenario. “Until you’re walking. Until you’re running for one minute, then five, then thirty. And then you keep going—” 

“I hate running,” Seoho says, and Geonhak snorts, kneeing Seoho on the side of his thigh so that he doesn’t disturb Seoho in his apple cooking. “Some part of me is afraid that it’ll be too painful to try to restart and be met with disappointment. The other part of me is afraid that I’ll… become greedy.” 

“Greedy,” Geonhak repeats. “For…”

“For more than what I deserve to want,” Seoho says, before he laughs to diffuse the uneasiness in his voice. Dreams and hope and affections not returned, once buried, should remain that way. “Desire is a nuisance if you can’t act on it.” 

Geonhak hums, thoughtful. “Desire, huh?” He pulls away for a bit, and that has Seoho instinctively turning to look at him to see where Geonhak has gone and why he’s backed off, but Geonhak is just getting water to drink.

The apples are good. Sometimes they don’t look as nice even though it’s the same steps every time, but today they come out with a glossy, brown coating, and Geonhak’s small, happy grin as he bites into a slice is enough to tell Seoho that the taste of it lives up to its appearance. 

“Remember the favor I haven’t used yet?” Geonhak asks, after Seoho gives him the last piece of apple. His mouth is glossy, too, and Seoho refuses to think about what it would taste like as he puts the dishes away into the sink. 

“Me giving that last piece of apple to you was your favor,” Seoho says, laughing when Geonhak pouts at him, cheeks still puffed as he stops in the middle of chewing. “Yes, I remember. What do you want me to do for you?” 

“You don’t have to if you really don’t want to,” Geonhak says, and Seoho rolls his lower lip underneath his top front teeth. “But… what do you think about designing a tattoo for me?” 

“For you?” Seoho blinks at Geonhak as he sits back down at the dining counter across from Geonhak. “Why would I…” 

“Consider it a test run,” Geonhak says. “You’re trying out something new, so it doesn’t mean anything if it doesn’t go well. Phase zero.” 

“Of course you’d ask for a favor like that,” Seoho says. It’s generosity masquerading as selfishness, because Geonhak’s request stems from a desire to see Seoho happy again in some capacity, and whatever the result is, he won’t actually benefit in any particular way. 

“Why do you sound so disappointed?” Geonhak asks. “It’s a brilliant idea, created by a brilliant mind.” 

“Because you’re supposed to ask for something that actually helps you,” Seoho says. Geonhak’s eyebrows are sheepish, but the curl of his lip is playful. “What are you going to do with a tattoo design if I actually bring it to you?” 

“It does help me,” Geonhak says. “I’ll understand you better as a person and as an artist, since the only stuff I’ve seen from you is several years old, right? And if you finish it and bring it to me, I’m going to get it tattooed somewhere.” Seoho waits for the punchline to that, and gapes at Geonhak when the line never comes. 

“That makes it even worse,” Seoho says. “I’m never going to do it now.” 

“Why not?” Geonhak whines. With his voice being so deep, it comes out the same pitch of someone else speaking normally, and the impulsive streak in Seoho considers kissing that whine out of him. “It’d be nice.” 

“No,” Seoho says firmly, brushing off Geonhak’s hands to gesture for Geonhak to listen to him, and Geonhak lets out a loud laugh at the fact that Seoho’s been driven to speak at a higher volume instead of his usual, calmer one. “Here’s a hypothetical. What happens if we have a giant fight and you think about me every time you look at it, _and_ it’s ugly?” 

“If it ever gets that desperate, laser removal is a thing,” Geonhak says, and Seoho’s eyes widen, “but I don’t go back on my words—” 

“And you lecture _me_ about making bad decisions.” 

“You neglect your long term health in order to achieve short term goals that wouldn’t hurt to be achieved a little slower,” Geonhak points out. “All I’m telling you in regards to bad tattoos is that most things in life are reversible even if they’re tedious and expensive.” 

“Have you ever had pieces removed?” Seoho asks. 

“Yeah,” Geonhak says, and then he sees the look on Seoho’s face. “Shut up, let me explain.” 

“I didn’t even open my mouth,” says Seoho. “This is slander.” 

“It wasn’t because I didn’t like the piece itself,” Geonhak says. “I had a falling out with the artist, and it was small enough that I felt it was worth getting rid of.” 

It’s the first specific, negative sliver of information Geonhak has willingly offered about himself in an ocean of inconsequential facts about him and humorous personal stories, and Seoho’s curiosity makes him want to pry for more. Geonhak owes him that much, honestly, after making Seoho overshare in all kinds of gross, sentimental ways, but Geonhak’s lips are pulled into a small pout which means he’s hoping that Seoho doesn’t ask him anymore about whatever he’s said. 

“They’re going to use you as a textbook example of why not to get tattoos, with a picture of you looking sad and everything. Figure 1.2A and Figure 1.2B,” Seoho says obnoxiously, and Geonhak tackles him only because he knows Seoho doesn’t ever mean it, just wants to get on Geonhak’s nerves. 

They end up on the floor, Seoho putting up a substantial fight against Geonhak’s wrath in the midst of his higher pitched cackling before Geonhak eventually overpowers him and succeeds at pinning him down. Seoho hadn’t expected to win anyway, considering the only thing he can beat Geonhak at is arm wrestling and that’s only if he uses his right arm. He curls up into fetal position when Geonhak stops pinning him in favor of digging ruthless fingers into the softer part of Seoho’s stomach, tickling him, only freeing Seoho from his punishment of vengeance when Seoho gives up and squeaks out a winded _please forgive me, Geonhak~_

“I was hoping,” Geonhak says, a few minutes later, when Seoho’s managed to catch his breath again, “that you would be less…”

“Less…?”

“Less _you_ ,” Geonhak settles on, like that’s the best choice when he had the option of using any other word available in the English language. He’s sitting next to Seoho now instead of on top of him, bangs a mess because all the layers from the crown of his head had been swept forward as he leaned over Seoho. 

“What is that even supposed to mean?” Seoho says, with a chuckle. “That’s the only thing I can be, isn’t it?” 

“Yeah,” Geonhak says. “I wanted to be able to like you less.” 

Seoho understands exactly what Geonhak means because he… feels the same way, but he still asks, “Why?” 

“So the thought of...not having this…” Geonhak’s eyes flicker to the stripe of exposed skin on Seoho’s stomach when Seoho stretches and his shirt rides up, and Seoho hopes that Geonhak doesn’t notice how quickly he drops his arms in response. 

“Not having what?” Seoho’s tongue feels like it’s been weighed down with rocks, foolish and curious to a fault. 

“You said that desire was a nuisance, earlier, if it couldn’t be acted on,” Geonhak says. 

“Yeah,” Seoho says. “Like ambition, and digging up old goals and dreams you thought you were going to leave on the back burner until you could go back to them, but end up just abandoning permanently.” 

“I could think of a few other things it applies to,” Geonhak says, quietly, and just like that, Seoho feels as if all of the air has been knocked out of him. 

“Like...” Seoho says.

“Talking in circles around someone and never going after what I really want,” Geonhak says. “Do you ever…” he laughs, when he sees the guarded expression on Seoho’s face. He’d laugh more, probably, if he put his hand to Seoho’s chest and felt how Seoho’s heartbeat starts to race. “You can’t possibly pretend that you haven’t noticed.” 

Bewilderment and anxiety and desire keep crawling all over Seoho’s insides, and he hates that he’s afraid of where this conversation is going, hates that he has no escape route because he won’t want to say no to Geonhak if Geonhak asks. This is exactly why he’d been so wary of agreeing to dinner without Hyejoo around. “I don’t…” 

“Sometimes, you’re hard to read,” Geonhak says. He rests his hand on Seoho’s knee, unmoving, like he’s waiting for Seoho to remove it. “And other times, not at all.” 

“Am I a riddle?” Seoho asks. He’s not, even if he wishes he were one, so that he’d have at least one more layer of defense against the likes of Kim Geonhak. “There’s no profound answer to life waiting for you by solving me, Geonhak. You’ll only be disappointed with what you find at the end.” 

“No,” Geonhak says. He’s staring at Seoho’s mouth, gaze shuttering into something darker, and Seoho is the one to put a hand on Geonhak’s chest even if he knows it won’t do much to curb the want trickling out from both of them. Seoho’s going to get swept under the ocean waves and he’s not sure if he’s ever going to come back. “There is no end to you, and I’ve never…” 

Geonhak leans in to kiss Seoho, and Seoho opens his mouth up to Geonhak easily, body finally catching up with his bewitched heart and mind and falling endlessly into the grasp of a man who has always waited for Seoho to give in to him with open arms. Geonhak is going to catch him before he hits the bottom of this scary well of emotions, so Seoho allows himself leniency this one time, lets Geonhak push his way in and mess him up until he feels like he’s disintegrating. 

“This okay?” Geonhak asks, against the skin of Seoho’s jaw. The lowness of his voice travels straight from where his lips are touching to the pit of Seoho’s stomach, and Seoho exhales quietly. “Seoho. Good or bad?” 

He withdraws his hand and mouth from Seoho’s face, gingerly, like he thinks Seoho doesn’t want Geonhak touching him, like there’s even a remote possibility the reason Seoho doesn’t have words to offer is because he’s repulsed by the idea of Geonhak kissing him. Geonhak couldn’t be any more wrong. Seoho has wanted to touch him from day one, when Geonhak had smiled at him sweetly enough to give Seoho an instantaneous cavity, and now, under the amber of Geonhak’s unwavering attention, Seoho is a fly resigned to a sticky, candied demise. 

“Good,” Seoho says, and he repeats it again when Geonhak stares at him in disbelief. That look, a little troubled and insecure despite how forward Geonhak has been on more than one occasion, gives Seoho the courage to be the one to pull Geonhak in by the neck this time, making Geonhak open up his mouth to Seoho’s own with a soft sigh. 

“You’re more like a kaleidoscope than a riddle,” Geonhak mumbles into the skin between Seoho’s jaw and neck, as if he’s not already doing enough to burn Seoho from the inside out. “Because every time I turn you, the gems and colors inside of you have shifted and scattered into something entirely new, every additional pattern as pretty as the last.” 

Seoho doesn’t know how he feels about the comparison but he for sure, physically _feels_ like a kaleidoscope. Not so much a whole person anymore, just a galaxy of specks and shards of what he once was, dots of various colors and sensations strewn across the floor in the wake of Geonhak’s hot palms sliding under his shirt and up his sides. 

“That’s very...” Seoho says, trailing off and giving up. The irony of words being difficult _now,_ out of all times, has him laughing, and his amusement quickly fades into something else when Geonhak presses closer, lifts his head to kiss at the corner of Seoho’s mouth. Perhaps Geonhak borrowed Seoho’s ease with words for a moment, so he could voice his thoughts in such a way that makes Seoho want to sear those words into his own skin for life. 

“Very...?” Geonhak asks, when he pulls away. He’s doing it on purpose, the gleam in his eyes indicating he knows exactly why Seoho can’t find the proper reply, but Seoho can’t gather the energy to glare at him. 

Geonhak shoves Seoho into the bed when they reach his room, Seoho’s cheek landing in soft comforter and his limbs tumbling in and catching up with the rest of him a second later. It doesn’t hurt, but it does make Seoho squeak in surprise. “What was that for?” 

“All the bullying I’ve endured at your hands,” Geonhak says. His eyes are bright. “Punk.” 

“Now you get to bully me,” Seoho says, mouth briefly falling open at the sight of Geonhak’s body line when Geonhak silently pulls his own turtleneck off by the collar and crawls into bed with him, though he recovers quickly enough to add, “Isn’t that just so fun for you?” 

“Very,” Geonhak says, and then Seoho lets Geonhak strip him out of his clothes, trying not to ignite every single time Geonhak’s eyes go dark at another part of Seoho’s body he discovers and consequently gets to touch. Everything is hot, and Seoho can’t tell where his inhales end and where his exhales start, not when Geonhak leaves no room for him to escape, pressing closer every time Seoho tries to back up or catch his breath. 

“The abs,” Geonhak says, nearly whispers a few minutes later. He’s talking with his lips touching the softest section of Seoho’s stomach, and it makes Seoho feel all too vulnerable with only his briefs on, makes him want to curl up and squirm away. Geonhak is settled too comfortably in between his legs, though, so Seoho has no choice but to stay still. “Why did you keep them a secret?” 

“Was I supposed to report them to you?” Seoho asks, the sting of his lips reminding him why he should talk less. He shivers, a little desperate, when Geonhak sits back up and straightens out over him, dragging his nails lightly down the center of Seoho’s chest before he flicks at Seoho’s right nipple with his thumb as both a warning and a promise. 

“I guess I like finding out about them this way, too,” Geonhak says. His gaze drops down the length of Seoho’s torso, and he studies the hard edges and curves with a fascination that’s equal parts academic and carnal. “You’re so lean.” 

“You could snap me,” Seoho says casually, and Geonhak jerks against him. “Oh.” 

“Shut up,” Geonhak says, ears flushing red. 

“But you seem to like it when I talk?” Seoho counters, laughter bubbling out of him because his insides are ablaze with sapphire heat, his own provocative words shifting into a double edged sword that affects him just as much as it affects Geonhak. In frustration, Geonhak kisses Seoho to shut him up, and honestly, Seoho can’t really say that he minds, and he just pulls Geonhak closer even when there’s no distance left between their bodies, half hoping that they’ll melt into each other like lava, cooling into one connected piece in the aftermath. 

Earlier, he had been able to tell Geonhak was hard through the soft material of his slacks and it had made his head spin, but now that they’re off, there’s even more to be overwhelmed by. The grounding press of Geonhak’s bare thighs and Geonhak’s ass against him, on top of him, along with the solid weight of their cocks against each other making Seoho’s mind go completely blank, uneven friction making him squirm from how hot and dry and slick he feels all at once. 

“I wanted to take care of you so badly, to make you feel good,” Geonhak says, rocking up into Seoho as he chases his own pleasure with even more fervor, and his eagerness sends Seoho reeling just as hard, drawing desperate, high pitched whimpers out of Seoho that Seoho hadn’t even known he was capable of making. Geonhak keeps kissing him, too, dotted pecks that grow sloppier and wetter as Geonhak shakily approaches climax and his composure starts to crumble into pieces. “But I wasn’t sure whether you’d let anyone do that for you.” 

“I guess that makes you special,” Seoho says, meaning for it to come out nonchalant, but he ends up just sounding breathless. It serves its purpose, though, because Geonhak stares at Seoho meaningfully, like he’s tucking that information away for another day, and then he’s sealing his lips to Seoho’s again and kissing him long enough that Seoho’s gasping for air when Geonhak finally releases him. 

Geonhak comes when Seoho bites him and sinks his teeth into the thickest part of muscle between Geonhak’s neck and shoulder, and Seoho watches with lazy but piqued interest as Geonhak spills repeatedly in between their stomachs, still shaking even as Seoho puts steadying hands on both sides of Geonhak’s hip bones until Geonhak eventually calms. 

“Is that what does it for you? Biting?” Seoho asks, teasingly. Geonhak nips at his ear in retaliation, the one without any active piercings in the middle of healing, and the pleasure in that split second of pain translates easily into the corresponding stutter of Seoho’s own hips. He really shouldn’t be making fun of Geonhak when he doesn’t have that much leverage over him, considering how vulnerable he is to anything and everything Geonhak does, including breathing in his direction. “Kinky.”

“ _You’re_ what does it for me,” Geonhak answers, genuine even when he’s being teased, and Seoho…

It’s even more horrible, that Geonhak practically breathes the words into Seoho’s ear because Seoho’s orgasm, originally dragging forward at a manageable pace, gets violently plucked from him against his will before he can even register it arriving, and then Geonhak is the one laughing triumphantly into the junction of soft, sensitive skin located between Seoho’s shoulder and his underarm while Seoho trembles underneath him, a string of profanities leaving his mouth under his breath as he adds to the mess on both of their stomachs. 

Seoho makes both of them clean up because he doesn’t want to go to sleep sticky and gross, and also because he can sense that Geonhak’s getting clingy, although he can’t tell whether it’s because Geonhak feels lazy and spent or that the touchiness is an extension of his affinity for physical contact. 

He’s right to be wary, because Geonhak pounces on him the moment Seoho approaches the edge of the bed, pulling Seoho into a back hug before Seoho can even object and nosing at the side of Seoho’s neck. It’s not the sort of hot Seoho likes to be when he’s trying to sleep, but Geonhak’s breathing sounds so content that he almost sounds like he’s purring, and at the very least, they’ve both been wiped down, so Seoho won’t have to worry about anything other than feeling dried sweat on his skin in the morning. 

“I like it when you smell like me,” Geonhak mumbles, and Seoho scrunches his nose. Geonhak has even less of a filter when he’s sleepy, and it’s dangerous. “Or is it the other way around? Feels homey.” 

“That’s dog behavior,” Seoho says, but Geonhak doesn’t say anything, and the last thing Seoho remembers before falling asleep is feeling the shape of Geonhak’s lips pulling into a smile against his skin. 

✧ ✧ ✧ 

In the morning, Seoho wakes up to his ringtone blasting from where his phone’s located on the floor, and without much consideration for where he is or who he’s with, he picks it up, barely registering the caller ID displaying the name of his best friend. 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah?” Hyojin repeats, probably amused at the sleepy curtness of Seoho’s greeting despite them not having spoken on the phone in months, and Seoho’s eyes widen as he processes who he’s talking to while Geonhak stirs awake next to him. “Is that any way to greet your best friend?” 

Seoho sits up. “Hyojin. Hi. Sorry.”

“That’s okay, sleepyhead,” Hyojin replies easily. His voice is bright and clear, and Seoho’s brain feels like it’s being tossed like a pebble meant to skip across the surface of a pond. 

“Who is it?” Geonhak makes no effort to lower his voice, just curls a thick arm around Seoho’s waist and attempts to pull him back down. Seoho thinks it’s because Geonhak’s still half asleep and dreaming about something, but when he turns to look at Geonhak’s face after trying to free himself from Geonhak’s iron grip multiple times, it’s obvious that Geonhak had interrupted him in the middle of his phone call for a purpose. 

“Geonhak,” Seoho says quietly, keeping his mouth far away from the mic of his phone so that Hyojin doesn’t hear him. “Behave.” 

Geonhak pouts at him, but relents and lets go of Seoho. 

“Is someone with you?” Hyojin asks. “It’s pretty early in the morning over there, right?” A pause, as he considers the stretch of silence that Seoho isn’t breaking. “Wait.” 

“Don’t worry about it.” Seoho gets out of bed, scrunching his nose at Geonhak until Geonhak finally lets go of his wrist, although he only loosens his grip enough for Seoho to slip his own hand free. Seoho picks up his pants from the floor, ignoring Geonhak’s steady gaze on him as he puts them on and leaves the room. “Why are you calling?” 

“I’m going to be in town in a couple of weeks,” Hyojin says. “I know you’re busy, and I would have texted you, but you haven’t been answering messages and I miss your voice.” 

“Sorry about that,” Seoho says. There’s just so much to do everyday, that everything and everyone nonessential gets pushed back, put on hold for another day until weeks and months have passed and Seoho still hasn’t gotten in touch with them. He feels bad, but it’s also been a long time since he and Hyojin have keep in touch on a daily basis, conversations from previous years spreading out into unanswered questions and half matched up time slots for a back and forth lasting approximately ten minutes before one of them has to go attend to something and leave the chatting for another day. “Are you going to be here for work?” 

“Yeah,” Hyojin says. “Flying in to try my luck and convince a big shot director to work with us on a potential film, but I’ll have some downtime on the weekends, I hope. Do you think _you’ll_ have time for me?” 

“Of course,” Seoho says. “World’s most important, wonderful, talented art director wants to spend time with me? It’s an honor.” 

“Stop that,” Hyojin says, but he’s chuckling. “You haven’t changed a bit, with that half fake tone of voice that makes it seem like you’re making fun of people even when you’re complimenting them.” 

“I mean all of my compliments,” Seoho says. He raises his eyebrows, then remembers Hyojin’s not here in person to appreciate the full experience of his prickly humor. “I’m very honest with you.” 

“Yeah, you’re honest all right,” Hyojin says. “It’s why you told me my last project was boring, but that it would do well because the target audience was boring and uncreative to begin with.” 

“It’s not like you were the one who pitched it,” Seoho whines. They both have good memories, but Hyojin is the one between them who remembers _everything,_ details accurate enough that Seoho always suspects Hyojin keeps a diary that he somehow magically flips to the right page every time he’s preparing to air out grievances. “It’s been years. Quit bringing it up.” 

“ _Also_ ,” Hyojin says, “the last time you felt inclined to message me, it was just to tell me not to buy those overalls because they were ugly.” 

“You bought them anyway,” Seoho says. He’s seen Hyojin wear them in at least one of his recent Instagram photos, horrendous patches of denim and leather stitched together. “Are they _not?_ And they only had boring color options besides the denim version.” 

“Says someone who only ever wears _black_ ,” Hyojin retorts. “Does color even matter to you when you see everything with zero saturation?” 

“Just because I know a few things about color doesn’t mean I have to walk around looking like a color wheel,” Seoho says, and he can hear Hyojin pull away from the phone to let out a squeaky, breathless laugh. As much as time seems to run away from him, Seoho misses moments like these where he and Hyojin can’t help bursting into laughter at each other every time one of them says anything regardless of how funny it is. “That’s unsound logic.” 

“Fair enough,” Hyojin says. There’s a brief pause, and Seoho can hear Hyojin opening a drawer along with the clink of metal as he digs for something. His time zone is three hours ahead, so he must be preparing to eat lunch. “How have you been doing?” 

“Good,” Seoho says. From where he’s standing in the living room, he can also hear Geonhak start to move around, and he cracks his knuckles aimlessly while making sure to keep his hand as far from the phone as possible so Hyojin’s not bothered by the noise. Not that Hyojin would ever be direct enough to say he minds, but he’s always been sensitive to unexpected sounds. “Busy, as always.” 

“How’s Hyejoo?” Hyojin asks, as Geonhak emerges from the doorway of his bedroom wearing only a loose pair of cotton, black sweatpants, hanging low enough on his hips that Seoho’s eyes naturally drift to the waistband of his underwear, which are black too. His tattoos are on full display like this, intricacy and placement in relation to each other better appreciated in the brightness of morning light, and Seoho chews on his lip thoughtfully as his mind goes half blank. 

In a rare moment of naivete, he thinks Geonhak has come out to drink water, or something, but Geonhak makes a beeline for him that gives him an odd sense of deja-vu, soon enveloping Seoho in warmth like a particularly clingy koala bear. Seoho wouldn’t mind if Geonhak means to stay _still_ and just hug him from behind, but Geonhak’s hands are drifting, sneaking under the hem of Seoho’s t-shirt, and Seoho has to make do with his one free hand and stop Geonhak in his tracks as he tries his best to absorb what Hyojin is talking about. 

“She’s good, too,” Seoho finally says into the phone after Hyojin finishes an anecdote about a coworker’s daughter, while Geonhak nuzzles at his neck, completely and totally unrepentant. “She’s…” 

Despite being somewhat scatterbrained at the moment, Seoho manages to explain to Hyojin what Hyejoo’s been up to lately at school, what with her art projects and helping out after school with set creation. Hyojin inserts a well intentioned joke about taking Hyejoo under his wing if she ever decides to pursue a career in the entertainment industry, and it’s an idea so far into the future that Seoho has trouble picturing it, but it’s a heartwarming one when he finally does. With a promise to solidify plans to meet once the date of Hyojin’s trip gets closer, Seoho eventually ends the phone call, making Hyojin be the one to hang up. 

“You could have continued talking,” Geonhak says. His voice is rough from sleep, his breath hot against Seoho’s skin and making the thin hairs on the back of Seoho’s neck rise. Seoho can’t help shivering, but Geonhak only hugs him tighter in response. 

Seoho is skeptical of that. “With you pestering me in the background?” 

“You sounded really happy,” Geonhak says. There’s a note of... something in his voice Seoho can’t exactly pinpoint. “I wanted to listen.” 

“Nosy, aren’t we? It weirds me out when someone listens to me on a phone call,” Seoho says, and Geonhak makes a huffing noise, miffed. “Like there’s two people I have to watch out for.” 

“I’m…” 

“What?” 

“Nothing,” Geonhak says. “Can I ask who you were talking to?” 

“Hyojin,” Seoho says. “My best friend. Well, I don’t know if best friends is an outdated term to be using when we’ve been out of college for so long, but...” 

“Not at all,” Geonhak says. “You guys must have known each other for a long time, but I haven’t heard you talk about him, I think…?” 

“Never came up,” Seoho says. “Actually, we were friends in high school, but we got closer in college even though we went to different schools. It’s always been long distance for us, I guess. I see him maybe once or twice a year, because both of our schedules are really packed and the free days don’t overlap much.” 

There’s not much to tell, when a friendship has settled into its roots, steady and unwavering even if it’s not revisited every single day. Hyojin is so different from Seoho, selfless to a fault while Seoho puts up a ring of poison around himself so that he can’t be hurt, opposites in how they react to other people’s hurtful actions, but their differences have never been a source of conflict in their compatibility with each other. Two differently colored pools of water that share a boundary but never spill more than a few drops into each other’s territory, just mix at the edges of where they meet. 

It’s a relationship completely different from Seoho’s entanglement with Geonhak. The waters of Seoho’s ocean keep spilling into Geonhak’s, creating a color vaguely recognizable in its fundamental building blocks but distinctly new, and there are no boundaries no matter how much Seoho tries to establish the separation as a clear one. 

“Why did he call?” 

“Are we playing twenty questions, except it’s one-sided?” Seoho asks. 

“You can ask me as many questions as you want,” Geonhak says. “But you’re not that curious about me.” 

“I’m plenty curious,” Seoho says, but he decides to appease Geonhak’s curiosity first. Geonhak is being playful, but the fact that his mood isn’t at its full wattage makes Seoho stop talking, and think... 

Well, he can think about it later. “He’s going to be in town a few weeks from now.” 

“A few weeks…” Geonhak says. “Do you know exactly when?” 

“Only that he said two or three weeks from now,” Seoho says. Geonhak’s unusually invested in the schedule of a person he’s never met. “Why? Is something wrong?” 

“I was going to—” Geonhak starts, but he doesn’t get to finish his sentence because Seoho’s phone rings with an incoming call from Hyejoo. Seoho belatedly realizes he’s missed a few of her texts from earlier in the morning but fortunately, none of them were urgent, and one of the messages is a photo of pancakes that Yerim’s mother made for the girls with no caption to follow it. 

“Hyejoo,” he says as soon as he accepts the call. “Want me to pick you up?”

“Yeah,” Hyejoo says. There are morning cartoons in the background, and the distant sound of giggles. “Daddy, did you oversleep?” 

“Not really,” Seoho says. “I was talking to Hyojin. Do you remember him?” Interestingly enough, Geonhak hooks his chin on Seoho’s shoulder at the mention of Hyojin’s name, snuggling closer despite having loosened his grip on Seoho a few seconds ago as if he originally meant to let go of him. 

There’s a moment of silence. Then: 

“Skunk uncle,” Hyejoo says, concise and confident. It’s loud enough through the phone that Geonhak hears and turns to give Seoho a bewildered look while Seoho snorts in surprise. 

“His hair’s a different color now, don’t call him that,” Seoho says, even as he tries to stifle his laughter and Hyejoo subsequently, logically, asks what color skunk-uncle’s hair is now. 

If Hyojin were here, he’d smile at Hyejoo’s nickname and smack Seoho for laughing, but there’s just Geonhak, toasty warm against Seoho’s back, and despite all of the emotions swirling inside of him that Seoho still hasn’t taken the proper time and effort to figure out for himself, he’s content for now to just let the presence of his two favorite people wash over him like a cool, comforting wave. 

✧ ✧ ✧ 

Seoho runs late by a few minutes when he goes to pick Hyejoo up. 

“No worries,” Yerim’s mother says when he apologizes. Besides her daughter and Hyejoo, the other two girls are still here as well, and they all watch him curiously as Hyejoo practically pounces on him, excited from all the playing she got to do but happy to see him and go back home. “It’s better to drive safe and slow.” 

“Thank you for taking care of them and hosting this sleepover,” Seoho says. 

“Everyone really enjoyed the cake you bought,” she says. “My husband recognized it, and said that you have to preorder it because it’s so hard to get.” 

Seoho smiles at her. “I was lucky.” 

“Daddy,” Hyejoo says, as they’re about to leave. Seoho raises his eyebrows at her, indicating he’s listening. 

“That’s not your sweater,” she says, reaching out to touch the material of the black knit that Seoho’s wearing. It must feel unfamiliar under her fingers, because he’d felt that way when he had put it on earlier in Geonhak’s bedroom, of Geonhak’s apartment. As Seoho had pulled it over his head, tucking his hands neatly through the ends of the sleeves, there’d been a distinct smell of _Geonhak_ all over it even though it’d been clean, taken straight from Geonhak’s closet and folded so neatly the lines are still a little visible at certain angles. “Right?” 

Seoho realizes, with a sudden sense of dread, that he’s severely underestimated himself, because he hadn’t known how much he’d miss Geonhak in the moments they weren’t together until he’s surrounded by a smell that’s constant yet reminds him of Geonhak’s absence every time he turns his head. 

Yerim’s mother is giving him a curious look, and Seoho pulls at his collar self-consciously even though he’d checked and then double checked for potential red marks on his neck before leaving Geonhak’s place. “I borrowed it~” he says quietly, hoping Hyejoo will drop the subject until they get to the car. He bows slightly to Yerim’s mother in goodbye and nudges Hyejoo so that she starts walking. 

“From who?” Hyejoo asks, as she turns to wave at her friends and Yerim’s mother, before looking back up at Seoho. “...Geonhak?” 

It’s loud enough for Yerim’s mother to overhear, Seoho can tell, because he sees her eyes widen in startling recognition at the name, and he rubs at his temples in amusement and embarrassment as Hyejoo asks him why he’s not answering her question, and he just shoos her faster towards the car. 

✧ ✧ ✧ 

In his rush to pick Hyejoo up a few days ago, Seoho hadn’t considered the aftermath, what it would be like to see Geonhak again with shifted expectations and newfound knowledge in the context of intimacy Seoho had wanted to avoid but eventually gave in to. 

It’s weird, because it’s always been relatively easy to ignore the attraction that tries to crawl from the bottom of his stomach and leap to his throat, pawing at him with the annoying reminder that everything and anything Geonhak does is enough to send him reeling. Seoho has been good at compartmentalizing his whole life, choosing to stow away emotions that seemed inconvenient so that he’ll be better equipped to interact with someone without his own feelings skewing his judgement, although people tend to find it a little soulless when they’re expecting conflict and lost tempers and instead, they get Seoho’s almost perfectly unaffected attitude.

Except things are different, now. Seoho knows how far the flush of pink extends when Geonhak’s embarrassed (far enough, that it looks like the ink in his skin is tinged with coral distress, too), knows how Geonhak sounds when he’s surprised and embarrassed and turned on all at once. He remembers enough about how Geonhak’s smile and laugh tastes like that he craves it even just looking from a distance, and he hasn’t stopped thinking about how the way Geonhak kisses exactly matches his personality. Earnest and increasingly confident in the moments that he gets proper encouragement, paired with the little gasps he makes whenever Seoho’s mean streak makes an appearance in the form of teeth sinking into Geonhak’s bottom lip. 

“Oh man, I really...” Seoho says, more to himself than to anyone else, but Geonhak still picks up on it from where he’s watching Hyejoo draw on his tablet. He stands up, smiling reassuringly at Hyejoo when she glances up at him, and that calms her enough that she goes back to the tapping at the screen, searching for the exact brush tool she wants while Geonhak follows Seoho into the kitchen. 

At this angle, they’re out of Hyejoo’s range of vision, but Seoho still takes a step back when Geonhak reaches out for him, fingertips landing for only a second on Seoho’s wrist before they’re separated again. One second, however, is enough to make Seoho feel like dots of rapid-fire heat leap up the line of his arm even as Geonhak stands four feet away from him, gaze steady on every micro shift in Seoho’s facial expressions, and Seoho’s insides twist uncomfortably at the confirmation of what he’d already known from the moment Geonhak had poked his head inside of Xion’s workstation and spotted Seoho at _his_ tattoo shop. 

Seoho never stood a chance to the likes of Kim Geonhak. 

Geonhak’s eyes narrow, trying to draw a conclusion for what Seoho’s not telling him. “You really what?” 

“Don’t get so close,” Seoho says. He softens the edge to his words when he sees Geonhak’s face fall. He resists the urge to hold Geonhak’s hand, or something equally silly, because he knows it’s going to leave him wanting more. “Hyejoo is here.” 

“Right,” Geonhak says. He’s staring at Seoho like a puppy who’s been abandoned, and Seoho wonders if closing his eyes will make it less obvious to him, what Geonhak wants from him. “Sorry.” 

“Don’t,” Seoho says. _Don’t be sorry_ , he means, but the rest of it doesn’t quite come out right when he wants it to, and then the timing is off, because Hyejoo’s coming into the kitchen to ask Geonhak something about the passcode because she’d let the screen fade to black when she was looking at something else. Without any hesitation, Geonhak turns away from Seoho and squats down to help her, and Seoho… well, he figures it’s a good time for another cup of coffee. 

✧ ✧ ✧ 

Seoho figures it’s just overthinking on his part, until Youngjo says something. 

“You’re sighing at your phone again,” Youngjo says. 

Seoho holds back a flinch. He hadn’t realized Youngjo was paying attention to him, and he hadn’t been conscientious of how much he was looking at his phone, either. Geonhak hasn’t been taking the initiative to send any messages, and it could be just that he’s busy with work and preparing for the convention he told Seoho about. Seoho certainly hopes those are the only reasons behind Geonhak’s responses being so much more curt than usual. “What?” 

“Would you like to spare any details on your non-existent partner?” Youngjo asks. He tries to be suave, sliding his pen behind his ear, but it falls as soon as he lets go of it and he curses under his breath before getting out of his chair and retrieving it from where it’s rolled underneath his desk. 

Seoho is too rattled by the implication that his feelings are transparent despite him having remained tightlipped in front of his coworker to even think of making fun of Youngjo’s clumsiness, and he blinks a few times, staring at Youngjo in a conflicting mix of indifference and irritation before he says, “I told you, I’m not dating anyone—” 

“I thought we were close, Seoho,” Youngjo says. He pretends to wipe a nonexistent tear from his cheek, and Seoho squints at him, more affronted by the display of poor acting and much less convinced that Youngjo’s caught on to anything at all. “But I see now that you’ve established a clear distance between us. I see how it is.” 

“It’s the truth,” Seoho says, dully. He’s not sure how much he wants that to be the case, but regardless, he’s not lying about anything so much as he’s omitting unnecessary details of something that might not even matter in the end. The thought leaves a bad taste in his already dry mouth, and he reaches for his half empty water bottle. “I don’t know what you want me to tell you.” 

“Were all the inside jokes for naught?” Youngjo asks, putting on a poetic air. Seoho sees the distorted silhouette of Youngjo’s silliness through the plastic of his water bottle first, then the non-distorted version when he caps his water bottle and places it back onto his desk. “Were our bonds merely a game to you? Are my daily anecdotes about my personal life just a nuisance in your rigid, disciplined schedule—” 

“If you don’t get to the point soon,” Seoho says in warning, as he rattles Youngjo’s clear plastic box of multi-colored thumb tacks and paper clips, “I won’t hesitate to put a thumb tack in your _thumb._ ” 

Youngjo crosses his arms over his chest. “That’s not what those are designed for.” 

“Then why do they have ‘thumb’ in their name?” Seoho asks, raising his eyebrows, and Youngjo splutters. 

“You can’t use that kind of logic, I’m pretty sure it’s for a different reason!” 

“Or I can do whatever I want,” Seoho says, with a shrug. “The world’s my oyster if I remain ignorant enough.” 

“Can’t tell if that…” Youngjo pauses, and he’s making the sort of face Hyejoo makes when she can’t decide whether something healthy tastes _good_ enough for her to get a second portion, “...makes perfect sense, or it makes so little sense that I’ve just been fooled my brain’s not big enough to handle the complexity of its application.” He sees Seoho’s face, and immediately backtracks. “Shut up, I don’t want to hear anything from you.” 

“I wasn’t going to _say_ anything,” Seoho insists. 

“Half of the bullying lies in your facial expressions,” Youngjo says. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you that?” 

“Maybe,” Seoho says, and he doesn’t think about Geonhak, who somehow manages to sense what Seoho wants to do and say based on a mere shift in Seoho’s breath or gleam in his eye. Whether Seoho is predictable or Geonhak is preoccupied with observations that won’t serve him any purpose other than a very clear understanding of Seoho, he’s always put effort into paying attention, which makes it all the worse that he’s gone chilly and Seoho can’t figure out _why_. Seoho is icy by default, but Geonhak is not. “Clearly you enjoy it, if it hasn’t tortured you to the point where you’re quitting your job.” 

“If you think your bullying would make anyone quit their 9-5 worklife,” Youngjo says. “You’re very mistaken on the amount of worthwhile entertainment people encounter at their jobs.” 

“I think you’re just optimistic about everyone having a sense of humor,” Seoho says. “Have you forgotten that people like Yoonjung exist?” 

“I’m sure she secretly finds you very funny,” Youngjo says. “...The blue haired man, who stares at you like you put the stars in the sky. Is he just a friend, then?” 

“You’ve…” the words threaten to bubble out of Seoho, before they fall right back into his throat as he reevaluates what phrases peel back the most layers and tries his best to avoid sounding and looking like he’s got a lie detector tied onto him. “You’re exaggerating. And yes.” 

“Exaggerating,” Youngjo echoes in an unrelenting type of amusement. “I see him walking you back to work, sometimes, at the end of lunch break. The cafeteria’s windows are _very_ clean, you see.” 

“I’m sure they are,” Seoho says. All of the people in his life are so nosy, these days. As much as it would make sense for Seoho to pay the same amount of attention to people he does to the angles of lines between adjacent and perpendicular objects, he doesn’t register anyone’s presence until they come very close to penetrating his personal bubble and even then, they’d probably have to make a significant amount of noise. That’s what fascinates him, how different two people can be even if they get along or don’t, what motivates those differences whether it’s how they were raised or what they grew into as an adult. 

“He hasn’t been around in a while, though,” Youngjo says. His voice isn’t teasing anymore. “So I figured something was wrong, especially when I noticed you kept checking your phone. You used to sigh at it before, but that was because you were trying to avoid calls you didn’t want to pick up. You weren’t… waiting like you are now.” 

Seoho considers deflecting. Changing the subject. Anything, so that he doesn’t feel so bare bones naked in front of the coworker, the _friend_ who’s only ever seen him at his best in a working environment, whom Seoho has never shared a story edging too personal with, not because he doesn’t trust Youngjo but because he thinks that Youngjo will ultimately leave one day and go on to bigger, better things, keeping Seoho in his heart but not in his life. 

Seoho doesn’t feel loneliness because he doesn’t have the time for it, but...

Every time Seoho opens up to someone, he gives a piece of himself to them. What both time and experience have revealed to him, however, is that it’s better, simpler, to keep as many pieces of your soul to _yourself_ in the long run and avoid the heartbreak of being split to nothing among too many people who might not even remember that they have a part of you with them. 

He knew that, he’s known it forever, and yet he still fell so far down and deep into Geonhak despite all of the warning signs he himself had put up, that he doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to climb back up to where he once was. 

“I don’t understand people,” Seoho says, curling into himself. 

“That’s not true,” Youngjo replies, like he’s prepared his whole life to deliver this line, and Seoho wonders, idly, just what Youngjo has noticed between him and Geonhak. “You just don’t let people understand you.” 

“I let _him_ ,” Seoho says, and Youngjo’s eyes widen. He probably wasn’t expecting Seoho to be so forthright so quickly, but the extent of what Seoho shares is often based on his need to come to a conclusion as soon as possible. “So why…” 

“You’re not as open as you think you are,” Youngjo says. His gaze is steady on Seoho, soothing and open and gentle, but not at all probing the way Geonhak’s is, and Seoho pulls the sleeves of his turtleneck so that they’re further down his wrists and hands than the sleeves of his blazers. “You’re aware that you’re closed off, but even when you choose to share bits of yourself, it’s… like a lights on, lights off moment, and if we didn’t catch it at that split second, it’s like you never revealed anything in the first place.” 

Seoho crosses his arms over his chest. “I can’t hold out my heart on a platter for everyone to _stare_ at forever,” he says. 

“Nobody said you have to,” Youngjo says. “I’m just saying, you might think it’s obvious how much you care about someone, but they might have no clue that you know they even exist. They might not even know that you think of them in the moments where they’re not with you, unless you tell them.” 

“Why would I tell them,” Seoho says. “Wouldn’t it just complicate things? Make them feel pressure to be around more?” 

“Exactly,” Youngjo says. “You wouldn’t. So people withdraw. They’re afraid, they’re unsure if they’re annoying you with their affection. Even if they can’t live up to ideal expectations, people want to hear that they have an impact, that you miss them, that you notice when they’re gone because it means their efforts of living thus far have been worthwhile.”

 _Right,_ Geonhak had said, and Seoho’s heart had, still does, sink at the coldness flooding across Geonhak’s facial features. That coldness had reminded Seoho of the time he’d gone to the beach as a teenager, painstakingly climbing down misshapen, rocky stair steps, only to find that the wind was blowing at unforgiving speeds and that the ocean was ice around his ankles. _Sorry._

“But there’s no tangible…” Seoho says. Seoho hadn’t gotten angry, and Geonhak hadn’t either, continuing to crouch down next to Hyejoo and teaching her a new trick in the drawing app every time she needed a more efficient way of doing something without deleting the layer entirely. He’d left earlier than usual though, with a curt goodbye and hair ruffle for Hyejoo, hands falling to his side as he’d briefly stared at Seoho, that awful four feet remaining constant between them ever since Seoho had pulled away from him to avoid letting Hyejoo catch on to how intimate they’d become. “No tangible issue that I can define that requires resolving.” 

“You _feel_ something’s wrong, though,” Youngjo says. “Isn’t that enough to open your mouth and say whatever it is that’s on your mind?” 

Seoho sighs, and reconsiders his plans for lunch. “I guess it is.” 

✧ ✧ ✧ 

It’s easy to assume you know someone until you’re reminded that you… don’t. 

Seoho, in the moments that he climbs high enough to gather enough faith and courage, falls harder than anyone else when that faith drains to nothing, his breath knocked out of him and leaving him curled into fetal position at the cliff halfway down that decline if he’s lucky enough to be caught by it. 

When he ducks into the shop, he’s expecting what he sees nearly every time he comes in. The same posters and photos taped on the walls, many of them in neater grids and squared rows now because Xion had let Seoho rearrange them for fun during a lunch break where he and Geonhak hadn’t gone anywhere, just ordered takeout. Maybe the receptionist girl who works less and less days with every week that passes will be at the counter, scrolling through her phone. She’s every bit as icy as she’d initially looked, but he’ll smile at her anyway just to be polite, and sometimes he gets a dismissive smile back. 

Or it might be Xion at the counter, watching whatever crime show he’s currently tuning into on his phone or tablet, chicken sandwich half eaten and sometimes forgotten next to him. 

Instead of Xion or just Geonhak, however, Seoho finds something else, and realizes he’s been taking familiarity for granted. 

To be more accurate, _someone_ else. A man he doesn’t recognize, talking to Geonhak in a low voice in the back area of the shop, which is where Xion goes whenever he needs to pretend to dig through his paperwork for clients like he actually has an organized system. It’s also where the printer is, and their backup equipment and supplies, but none of that really matters because all Seoho can focus on is the fact that he can tell instantly the man isn’t a customer, but someone Geonhak knows personally. His fingers are wrapped around Geonhak’s forearm, pleading, almost, and Geonhak’s brow is furrowed even as he continues to let the man hold onto him. 

Neither the man nor Geonhak have spotted Seoho yet despite the bell ringing noisily when he’d opened the door, too preoccupied with whatever words they’re exchanging, and Seoho doesn’t particularly want to be privy to the contents of their conversation, especially not when the man leans in, and... 

_Mine,_ Seoho doesn’t think, because Geonhak has never made any promises, never offered anything more than friendship to Seoho and his daughter from the good of his heart, never told Seoho much about himself other than the parts Seoho already sees on a regular basis. Seoho has always been possessive, just stomped it out whenever he could feel it crawling up the line of his spine, but it’s so hard to swallow it back now when it keeps washing up against the roof of his mouth, consuming him with a level of jealousy Seoho hardly ever associates himself with. 

_Heartbreak_ , Seoho finds, tastes horribly familiar even if it’s never been the dramatic kind for him, never played out like how it is in the movies. No loud arguments with scathing insults and crying tantrums, no identifiable villain in the midst of two people trying their best to coexist despite their diverging paths. Instead, Seoho is filled with a slow, persistent ache, sadness trickling out of him in the moments where Hyejoo isn’t watching, when she’s too preoccupied with drawing or Candy Crush or Geonhak’s origami lesson of the week to notice Seoho withdrawing and taking a breather, but never a break. 

_Loneliness,_ Seoho had told Youngjo he didn’t have time for, but like a traitor, emptiness knows Seoho so well that it lives in the softest parts of him. In the spot of skin behind his ear, on the nape of his neck, on the edge of where his rib cage ends in the center of his stomach, blossoming in a million other points on his body. The sensation of being utterly _alone_ in a world full of people, however, really only makes an appearance whenever the sun comes down and there’s no one to witness Seoho falling apart from the inside out, as loneliness wants no audience other than its most miserable. 

All of a sudden, it’s difficult to breathe, and Seoho pushes the door to the tattoo shop open as he escapes, not caring that he’d hit the handle at a weird angle of his palm. It stings, a lot, and Seoho knows that the skin will be red for a while, maybe even bruise later since there’s very little chance he’s going to ice it, but it’s nothing compared to the way his chest had wanted to rip itself apart at the sight of Geonhak and the man who seemed much too close to him just to be a friend. 

_Anger, jealousy, neglect, desire…_ Seoho starts to identify every gut-wrenching feeling and attempts pushing them to different parts of his mind without hurting himself too much in the process. He makes so many mistakes lately, and they all involve Geonhak. 

“Seoho?” 

Seoho doesn't scare easily, and it’s not that unlikely for him to run into Xion in front of the shop Xion _works_ at, but he had fully expected Xion to be inside and not outside of it so he flinches, ever so slightly, when he realizes who’s called out to him. 

“Why do you look like you’re doing something wrong?” Xion asks. His eyeshadow is red today, and it makes him look like one of those idols in a boy group, with his picture perfect makeup and naturally long lashes. He’s wearing a colorblock crewneck, supplemented by a Y-shaped necklace made out of thin, glossy ribbon. His legs are swallowed up by a pair of ivory, wide legged jeans, and on his feet are bright blue combat boots. “Are you planning a prank on Geonhak or something?”

“Contrary to popular belief, I don’t always want to wreak havoc,” Seoho says. 

“I trust popular belief more than your claims that you can have moments where you’re not scheming in some small way,” Xion replies. “Sorry~” 

“You’re not sorry at all,” Seoho points out because he knows better, and Xion grins at him, open and playful. The small moments of familiarity are enough to remind Seoho that not all things are bad even if his ocean feels like it’s drying up and running from him faster than Seoho can scoop it up with his hands to preserve it. 

“So,” Xion says. “Why are you here?” 

“I was in the area,” Seoho says. Appropriately timed, drifting clouds have the sky darkening along with Seoho’s mood as the sun is briefly obscured. He holds out the paper bag he’s got clutched in his hands, glad that the contents inside won’t go to complete waste. “I bought these from a nearby bakery for a meeting later but the meeting’s been cancelled. Would you like to share them with Geonhak?” 

“You’re welcome to come in,” Xion says. He’s giving Seoho a weird look, having picked up on Seoho’s reluctance to go inside, but he takes the bag from Seoho regardless. He pulls the top of the bag apart by the two handles and peers inside, glancing up at Seoho with a pleased look when he sees pastry choices inside that he approves of. “I don’t think Geonhak’s left for lunch yet.” 

“It’s fine, it’s fine. I have other plans,” Seoho says. 

“What plans could be more important than hanging out with Geonhak and me?” Xion says. He tilts his head, like it’ll give him a new angle on whatever Seoho’s not telling him. “Though I can tell it’s more Geonhak-motivated, for you. And aren’t you halfway through your lunch break?” 

Seoho stares at a black spot on the sidewalk, wonders how long ago gum had been dropped there and stepped on over and over again until it gradually turned from an unnatural shade of pink or mint to that color. “Yeah.” He opens his mouth, to prepare to excuse himself and leave, hoping that by the time he makes it back to his office he’s more affronted by the sweat that’s accumulated on his skin than the jealousy that had come with seeing Geonhak talk to an unfamiliar man who had seemed too close to him for comfort. 

Xion is more like Seoho, allotting his touches only to situations where he feels they’re necessary, so it comes as a surprise when Seoho feels delicate fingers wrap around his wrist to prevent him from leaving. A large group of teenage girls walk by them, and Seoho takes a few steps back, leading Xion closer to the side of the pavement closer to the shop so that they’re not in anyone’s way. 

“Are you…” Xion glances down at the bag in his other hand before he’s looking back at Seoho again, as if with a magnifying lens this time like he’s trying his hardest to figure out what he’s missing, or what he’s failed at digging up out of Seoho. “...Really not going to come in?”

“I was just passing by,” Seoho says, and Xion makes a humming noise that’s more contemplative than passive before he lets go of Seoho. 

“That’s what you always say,” Xion says. “I’m starting to think it’s a lie, at this point.” There’s no accusation in his voice, just concern. 

“Does it matter?” Seoho offers a tired, diluted version of his usual smile when Xion’s eyes widen at the fact that Seoho has settled for an answer right in the middle of icy and defeated instead of characteristically avoidant. 

“Did something... happen?” Xion says. 

“No,” Seoho says. He wishes he knew, just as much as Xion does, and he has no right answers to that question when he has no idea what Geonhak is feeling, what Geonhak is thinking of him right now. Maybe he’s not thinking about Seoho at all, more preoccupied with his visitor who looks like he knows Geonhak too well, and Seoho tries not to feel devastated at the very high possibility that he was never in anyone’s heart to begin with. “I don’t… I don’t think so.” 

“You don’t think so,” Xion repeats, sounding unconvinced, but Seoho probably looks wounded enough that he considerately chooses to not push for more. 

“Go inside,” Seoho says, lightly. “Did you eat?” 

“Yup,” Xion says. He holds up his index and middle finger in a V-pose, curling them cutely enough that Seoho feels almost inclined to capture them and shake Xion’s hand in his own. Instead, Seoho shoves his hands in his pockets, his right one feeling for the smooth corners of his phone even if he doesn’t take it out. “I had some hotpot by myself. I ate ice cream, too.” 

“Good,” Seoho says. “Want me to treat you to a meal sometime? You never come to eat with us, but…” 

“There’s a reason for that,” Xion says, mildly, and Seoho blinks at him. 

“What?” 

“Geonhak’s generous with everything else,” Xion states. “With you, though, he hates sharing.” 

Seoho swallows around the imaginary lump in his throat, and Xion watches his reaction with a noncommittal level of interest. “You’re exaggerating.”

“Hardly,” Xion says. “I thought you were aware of it.” 

“Not at all,” Seoho says. _Don’t like him more than you like me,_ Geonhak had said, that first time they’d eaten lunch together, and...

“Well whatever _didn’t_ happen,” Xion says, and he looks as if he’s been enlightened despite Seoho offering no useful information, “come again to visit us when you have the time, Seoho.” 

✧ ✧ ✧ 

The mail has piled up to an almost embarrassing height at the corner of the dining table flush against the wall, where everything else Seoho needs to deal with paperwork-wise is stored as a reminder to himself that he shouldn’t put off small but important tasks. He puts colorful post-it notes on them sometimes, but the extra effort proves to be pointless when he has the tendency to stack all his mail on top of each other, effectively covering up the color that’s supposed to catch his attention in his free time. 

Work is a little slower, this week. Seoho would be on guard in case Yoonjung tries to get him to do something extra to compensate for it, but he gives himself a breather by putting his phone down and allowing himself to sort through the bills, advertisements and other assorted documents taken from their mailbox. It’s somewhat mindless, and he’s pleased to find that none of the potentially-important-looking envelopes end up having very important notices inside of them. 

Hyejoo approaches Seoho when it’s nearing six. The sun is still bright out at this time of year where the weather is still deciding between spring and summer, and it’s warm enough that he’s not concerned with her wearing only a t-shirt inside even though their house tends to run cool in temperature. 

She tilts her head as she asks, “Is Geonhak coming over?” 

“I don’t know,” Seoho says. Geonhak and Seoho usually confirm whether collective dinner with Hyejoo is happening somewhere in between their scattered but regular messages with each other, but they haven’t been texting, and Seoho is not brave enough to ask, especially when he has no idea what Geonhak might look like reading a message from him on the other side. “He might be busy. He _is_ busy, probably.” 

“Did you ask him?” 

“No,” Seoho says, and Hyejoo gives him the sort of annoyed, confused look that makes him realize how much she takes after him. There are enough manners baked into her expression that it’s not a disrespectful one, but also plenty of attitude that she doesn’t need to say anything for him to feel like he’s being silly. “He has a convention coming up, so I figured he wouldn’t have the time…” 

“He could,” Hyejoo says, stubbornly. “He could have the time. Don’t you want to see him, too?” 

“Of course,” Seoho says. “I just don’t think—” 

“How will you _know_ if someone wants to see you if you don’t actually ask them?” Hyejoo says, exasperated, before she kicks her foot out, nowhere near Seoho’s shin, just as an expression of her irritation. 

Her words, innocent and honest and void of any intention except to whine about being denied time with Geonhak, hit painfully close to what Seoho is already struggling with, and he wishes he’d become the kind of adult he’d expected to transform into when he was a child. Young Seoho had thought that being any age above twenty meant you automatically knew how to navigate through life, with no rules holding him back and a full understanding of the world, but thirty one year old Seoho is still afraid to ask for what he really wants when he’s not guaranteed an answer he can handle hearing. 

“Geonhak always says yes to you, remember?” Seoho says. “I’m trying to be considerate of him and not give him any pressure when he needs extra time to prepare for an event. Okay?” 

“When’s the convention?” Hyejoo asks. 

“I’m not sure of the exact date,” Seoho says. He feels like Geonhak had maybe tried to tell him at some point, but they were interrupted by something. 

“You’ll ask him about that, right?” Hyejoo crosses her arms. “Daddy, you should care more about what Geonhak’s doing when he’s not with us!” 

“I do,” Seoho says, resigned. “Hyejoo…” 

“We don’t have any ice cream left,” Hyejoo says, suddenly changing the subject. “Can we go buy more after dinner?” 

“Yes, chipmunk,” Seoho says. 

“I want both strawberry and mint chocolate,” Hyejoo says, with a defiant twist of her mouth. Seoho usually only lets her get one tub, not two, because he wants to make sure she’s not consuming too much sugar. “To make it up to me.” 

“To make it up to you that Geonhak’s busy?” 

“Yeah,” Hyejoo says. “And the fact that you didn’t ask him if he actually was.” 

“Strawberry and mint chocolate ice cream it is, chipmunk,” Seoho says. When he smiles at her, she scrunches her nose for a few seconds before she decides that she forgives him and smiles back, although a little grumpily. “Tell me what you want for dinner, first.” 

“Spaghetti sauce on toast,” Hyejoo says. “We still have lots leftover, right?” 

“Yes,” Seoho says. He’ll have to figure out a side dish of vegetables to go with that, even if their spaghetti sauce already has plenty of carrot and mushroom cubes in it. There’s broccoli, already cooked, that he can toss into a stir-fry and be straightforward about. “The best spaghetti toast for the best chipmunk princess.” 

Hyejoo giggles at the embellished nickname of endearment, and as she scampers off to her room to bring back her finished worksheet about rocks so that he can look it over, Seoho closes his eyes, letting himself have a moment of quiet and believe that things will be alright in the end, even with the bumps and obstacles and unexpected falls. They always are. 

✧ ✧ ✧ 

There aren’t many dishes to wash after dinner, so Seoho has Hyejoo help him put everything that needs to be washed into the sink, so that when they come back from their trip to the grocery store he can go straight to washing them. 

Fate, Seoho thinks, has always treated Hyejoo a little better than the rest of humanity. As long as Hyejoo is in the car with him, Seoho runs into less red lights at traffic intersections and has much better luck with finding good parking spots even at times of day when it’d be a miracle to find parking at all. In her art class, too, there’d be a section of the class dedicated to making ceramic pieces, and Hyejoo’s sculpture had been one of two students’ pieces that hadn’t exploded in the kiln despite it being so close to the piece that had caused complications for everything else. 

So when they end up running into Geonhak at a little past eight in a grocery store that they don’t normally go to, that isn’t anywhere near Geonhak’s apartment, Seoho can only laugh at how Hyejoo has gotten the best of both worlds: two ice cream flavors in the shopping basket she insists on carrying herself along with her favorite person in the world, Kim Geonhak. 

Geonhak is wearing a white t-shirt and black jeans, tattoos partially displayed, solid ink of thinly lined feathers making up the graceful dip of a swallow’s tail as the drawn creature disappears into his right sleeve. Underneath his left sleeve is a spiraling mix divided into horizontal, separated stripes of semi-realistic and abstract depictions of flower petals, leaves around them blacked out entirely while the shadows underneath those leaves are shaded in with dots that increase in density near the edges of the flower petals. 

Seoho doesn’t particularly need the refresher on Geonhak’s arm tattoos, considering how much he’d studied them in the midst of kissing a dotted path down the center of Geonhak’s chest and stomach that night, although they look even prettier in the bright light of the grocery store. The tattoos Seoho doesn’t remember as well (for obvious reasons) are the ones curling around Geonhak’s shoulders, which eventually stretch their long sloping claws across his chest, one or two stray pieces placed at his side right below his pec.

Even then, it’d been dim, and Seoho had been preoccupied with other things (like the way Geonhak had straddled him, thighs a solid weight on either side of Seoho’s waist as he’d kissed Seoho into a different kind of oblivion, sweet and dark and possessive). 

Seoho has enough self preservation to stop recalling anything more than that, attention drawn back to the present when he notices Geonhak is wearing glasses. The frames are metal and thin, shaped somewhere in between round and square. Paired with his unsettled, messy hair, the glasses make him look more like a college student than a working adult, although that really depends on the type of working adults you come into contact with. 

“Ah,” Geonhak says, the moment Hyejoo spots him and drops her basket for Seoho to watch over before dashing in a straight line towards Geonhak. “Hyejoo?”

“Who else!” she says, delighted beyond herself to have made such a wonderful discovery to the slight dismay of her father. “You have glasses on, Geonhak.”

“I do,” Geonhak says, setting down his shopping basket too. He looks tired, but then he smiles, compact features giving way to an expression that’s more boyish, more open. As expected, Seoho can’t look at anything else except him. 

“Why?” 

“My eyes aren’t feeling well today,” Geonhak says. 

Seoho wants to ask if it’s allergies or something else, but he’s struck by the sense that maybe he doesn’t deserve to ask, and it’s easier to withdraw into the background, letting Hyejoo ask all of the questions and pry for the information Seoho is afraid to seek out himself. 

“Allergies?” Hyejoo says, and Geonhak nods, somewhat in confirmation. 

“My eyes are also really dry today, so I figured I would take out my contacts early and just use my glasses since I still have a few things left to do,” Geonhak explains. 

“A few things?” Hyejoo repeats. She squeezes a little bit in on herself, shoulders coming up and tucking her head in, and that alone is enough information for Seoho to know she’s giving Geonhak her best persuasive, puppy eyes even if he can only see her from the back. “Can they wait until tomorrow, maybe?”

“Hyejoo,” Seoho says, mildly. Consideration in one ear, right out the other. She has no filter when it comes to Geonhak and in some ways, Seoho supposes he’s the same. 

For the first time today, Geonhak makes eye contact with Seoho. He offers a smile that Seoho thinks is meant to put him more at ease and also means Hyejoo’s straightforward questions aren’t a bother, but there’s a reluctance to it too that Seoho can’t shake off, unsure of whether he’s reading too much into it or projecting his uncertainty onto Geonhak. “They probably could,” Geonhak says, winking at Hyejoo, “for the right person.”

“Will you come over and look at the project I brought home from school?” Hyejoo asks expectantly, and whatever hesitation Seoho had sensed in Geonhak’s body language has disappeared entirely by the time Hyejoo has finished asking her question, probably melting away in the wake of her tugging at the hem of Geonhak’s shirt. 

“Is it the one you mentioned before?”

“It’s a different one,” Hyejoo says, shaking her head. She has her hands clasped together behind her back, and she’s rolling her right foot in circles by the toe of her sneaker. “We had to write poetry and then build a set inspired by it out of materials we were given.”

“Yeah?” Geonhak squats down to talk eye to eye with her. “I’m sure it turned out awesome.”

“I hope so,” Hyejoo says. “I want you to see the project I did last year for my favorite book, because Daddy helped a bit with it, but it’s still on display at the school library inside of a glass transparent box.”

“It must be an awesome exhibit for whoever comes in,” Geonhak says. He’s cooing at her even if he’s not using his soft, restrained voice anymore, and the fact that he no longer has to because Hyejoo thinks he’s wonderful either way, makes something overwhelming stir inside of Seoho’s chest. “Are you the best artist in your class?” 

“I don’t think so,” Hyejoo replies, but her shy grin is smug at the corners, and Geonhak most likely laughs because he sees it the same time that Seoho does. “I’m good at faces and people compared to the rest of my class, but I have a classmate who’s the best at drawing dogs. He’s also really good with colors.” 

“Dogs are hard,” Geonhak agrees. “If you practice them enough though, one day they’ll become _less_ hard. And color comes with experience and age.”

“Daddy always says that,” Hyejoo whines. “What if I don’t want to wait until I’m older to become better at art?” 

“I’m afraid you don’t really have a choice,” Geonhak says. He smiles at her as he tilts his head, eyebrows raising. “You’ll just have to be patient like the rest of us, Hyejoo.” 

Seoho has seen it a million different times in a million different ways, but he thinks this particular version of Geonhak’s smile will always feel like a punch to the gut even if he can recall it almost perfectly with his eyes closed. The way Geonhak hesitates, before amusement is pulling at the corners of his mouth and his eyes, smile then emerging in full force when he finally gives in. 

_All the time_ , Seoho recalls Hyejoo saying, as Hyejoo excitedly asks Geonhak about what his favorite ice cream flavors, and he thinks about what Geonhak would say back to him, if he’d asked Geonhak to stay for real. To keep him and Hyejoo forever, when Geonhak has never come right out and asked for anything like that from Seoho. 

For Seoho, time away from other people has never been too difficult. He’s never been a ship at a dock, waiting to embark on new adventures because he’s got enough things to worry about handling at shore, on land, and he’s always told himself that separation isn’t permanent when the people he loves most are just a phone call away, some even accessible within a short flight or a tedious albeit manageable drive. 

After all, so many of his friendships are long distance that he’s learned to tuck longing away in the quietest parts of him, for nights when Hyejoo is already sleeping and Seoho looks through old photos from years and years ago of him and Hyojin and all of the people he keeps in touch with through occasional messages and emails. Whenever he revisits records from the past, he has the same reactions to those snapshots of a time left in sepia, the same transpiring of emotions as the amusement and fondness trickles into something a little sad, a little desolate. Even then, Seoho thinks that rather than missing the people he’s left behind, he misses what they _meant_ to him, and the strong, hopeful energy in the eyes of a boy who had thought it possible to conquer whatever the world had in store for him.

With Geonhak though, Seoho can’t seem to accept that the days they don’t see each other are merely days and not weeks, or months, or years. He forgets how easy it was to go without seeing anyone other than Hyejoo for long periods of time, never lingering on the concept of _separation_ because in his eyes, someone’s absence wasn’t something taken away from him so much as their presence was an addition to his life he didn’t always need. 

The hardest pill to swallow, is that he’s gotten to a point where he wants Geonhak to take up more of his time than what Geonhak doesn’t, hates seeing the word _goodnight_ and looks forward to _good morning_ messages before the sun even rises, and it’s a type of longing that’s foreign to Seoho, a man who has never let himself look anything other than forward on a path wide enough just for him and his daughter. 

Geonhak doesn’t have a significant amount of shopping left to do, much like Seoho and Hyejoo, and they check out in different lines before converging at the grocery store exit. They walk side by side to where they’ve parked, their cars coincidentally ending up in the same row, and with Hyejoo chattering happily in between them, Seoho wonders if Geonhak is even a little aware of just how far out he’s pulled Seoho into his ocean, his orbit, his gravitational pull. 

For Seoho has never _missed_ someone the way he misses Geonhak, misses him currently despite them being right next to each other, like he’s a planet constantly waiting for the time of day when the sun so benevolently shines its warmth and light into his atmosphere and helps him remember, once again, how it feels to be held. 

✧ ✧ ✧ 

It hadn’t been as obvious when they’d met at the grocery store, but it’s evident that Geonhak’s feeling pretty out of it when he comes over. From the moment he comes in, he’s skittish, and he makes sure to stay clear of Seoho regardless of what Seoho’s saying or how far Seoho is from him, although he keeps his eyes on Seoho as if waiting for Seoho to cross the shifting, invisible line between them.

Initially, Seoho wants to remain hopeful that whatever weird energy lingers in between them is just a product of Geonhak being busy this week and his own brain going into overdrive with paranoia and jealousy he still hasn’t managed to shove into a cardboard box and tape up. But Geonhak’s perfectly fine around Hyejoo, easily letting her slot her hand into his as she leads him to her project after he’s taken off his shoes, and Seoho worries at his bottom lip with his upper teeth as he considers the way Geonhak had stepped back earlier, ever so slightly, when Seoho had inadvertently gotten a little too close to him in order to shut the door. 

“Are you making coffee again?” Hyejoo asks, when she realizes Seoho is wordlessly making his way towards the kitchen, her conversation with Geonhak going on pause as she transitions into nagging mode. In moments like this one, with her chin pointed out and eyes sharpened into a scrutinizing gaze, Seoho feels more like the child than the parent in their relationship. 

“I haven’t had that much today,” Seoho says. 

“Lies,” Hyejoo says, and Geonhak laughs. Some of the stiffness in Seoho’s shoulders dissipates just at the sound of Geonhak relaxing. “I saw the trash can earlier and there were two coffee cups!”

“What if they weren’t coffees?” They had been, though, and maybe the minor lie shows in his voice because Hyejoo gives him a look that says she highly doubts he’s telling the truth. “I occasionally like sweet things, too.”

She looks like she wants to argue more, but Geonhak comes to Seoho’s rescue by distracting her with a question about how she’d designed a certain portion of her project, and that leaves Seoho free to continue his trek to the kitchen and more importantly, his coffee brewer. 

Nearly half an hour passes like that, Hyejoo keeping Geonhak preoccupied while Seoho sips his coffee from his mug and lets their voices wash over him. He looks through a few emails and organizes what research and documents he needs to prepare for his author meetings throughout the next few days, choosing not to engage unless Hyejoo pulls him in briefly to corroborate a story or answer a miscellaneous question, and he pretends not to notice her glancing in between him and Geonhak once she notices they’re not talking to each other as much as they usually do. 

Seoho eventually nudges Hyejoo in the direction of the bathroom, telling her that she should shower before she gets sleepy and whiny about it later, and she only obeys when Geonhak promises her that he’ll compensate for the time lost by her getting clean by staying the extra amount of time afterwards. At the doorway of her room, Hyejoo gives them a last worried glance before she disappears inside to get a change of clean clothes. 

Seoho looks, then, at Geonhak. The cautious curl of Geonhak’s fingers, pads of them pressing hard enough into the softer wood of the table to leave dents if he’s not careful. Seoho doesn’t mind. He minds more that Geonhak’s shoulders are turned ever so slightly away from him, leaning away, conveying a discomfort Seoho doesn't know how to dismantle. 

“Is something wrong?” 

“No,” Geonhak says, too quickly, and it makes Seoho frown. 

When Seoho had first met Geonhak, Geonhak had felt… imperceptible, even if he’d been mostly sweet. A man who’d been aware of his looks and selectively used them for the motives he kept hidden away, who’d seen Seoho as a piece of cheese in a complicated trap he would sooner or later figure out how to disassemble. 

But now, Seoho knows that Geonhak bristles at silly pranks, too, forgets about speaking nicely whenever Seoho pushes too many of his buttons at once because all he’s thinking about is how to make Seoho _stop._ That Geonhak makes it a priority to be as thoughtful of any retail workers or restaurant waiters he comes into contact with, but narrows his eyes when he’s out shopping with Hyejoo and Seoho, and he sees parents losing their tempers with their children for wanting to look at a store display a little longer. Geonhak can be so _shy_ , yet unwavering in his confidence when he’s working with a client and fully in his element, eyes focused with glass like clarity on the end result he can already see forming, although he does get a little impatient if the client is being more difficult and drawing the consultation process out into a burden. 

Geonhak has so many faces, and Seoho is grateful for having been privy to them even if he knows they only make up the tip of the iceberg and that, despite all the time they spend together, he hardly knows _enough_ about Geonhak. Otherwise he’d have known who that man in the tattoo shop was, instead of remaining undecided in how bothered he’s letting himself become because of it, or he’d know why Geonhak is so upset and has still chosen to come over when he’s not in the mood to be socializing. 

_Have I done something to upset you?_ Seoho considers asking, because it’s eating away at him even if the rational part of him knows that Geonhak is allowed to have a bad day. He’d just been foolish enough to assume that he’d never really see it unfold in front of him. 

“Okay,” Seoho says, instead. For him, it’s never been a difficult task to choose what words to use, but whether to utter them at all because silence is the most foolproof way of staying unaffected, or at the very least, pretending to be. If he says something that doesn’t come out right, he’ll have to explain it more, and then his feelings will flood out of him like a wave crashing onto shore and Seoho doesn’t know if he’d be able to pull back after that. “Because I don’t want you to feel like you have to show up just because Hyejoo wants you to. She cares enough about you that she’d be able to handle you not seeing her if you have something else going on.” 

Boundaries are hard to try and budge when you don’t know if you’re even allowed to approach them. Geonhak is all ears and soft, inquisitive eyebrows if he senses Seoho’s in a bad mood, whether it’s because of work troubles or an offhand remark about Hyejoo from unsuspecting parents, but Seoho is not used to making people open up to him if they don’t do it first. 

Wanting more than what he’s been given is a new for Seoho, and he’s afraid of what it means, that he’s never really cared about how far he could push someone until he’d met Geonhak. 

“I know,” Geonhak says. “I... wanted to see you.” 

Seoho does a double take at Geonhak, the rain in his head stopping for a moment at the unexpected admission. He hopes his voice doesn’t sound as thick as it feels in his throat when he obnoxiously replies with, “...You missed my bullying? And not Hyejoo’s unconditional adoration for you?” 

“Missing her is a given,” Geonhak says. He smiles at Seoho, front on, and it’s thin. Tired. Seoho doesn’t know what to make of it, but it doesn’t feel like the fatigue in that smile is something he’s caused, just an expression he’s drawn out now that the air between them doesn't feel so chilly, so circumspect. “With you, it depends on the day.” 

“You should miss me everyday,” Seoho says, then continues talking when he realizes he doesn’t want to hear Geonhak’s reply to that quip. “You don’t want to talk about it either, I’m guessing. Whatever’s bothering you.” 

“It’s...I’ll be fine with time,” Geonhak says. He drops his hands to his lap, clunkiness of his watch scraping the edge of the table as he does so. “It’s not something you need to… that you can help me with, anyways.” 

Seoho could leave it. It’s what he’s programmed to do every time he feels uncomfortable in a conversation, have it hang in the air until the other person is forced to decide how to proceed. Let silence wash over them until it’s like words have never been exchanged at all. Seoho avoids initiating things he might not be able to handle because he’s afraid of being met with silence and rejection and walls not put up by him, because understanding is something he always wants but can never openly chase without feeling like he’s going to hurt the most in the end. 

But he’s tired of holding back after years of furtive glances and misunderstandings left unresolved because of his own unwillingness to open up, and caring in his own way is the least he can do for Geonhak even if their affection for each other isn’t aligned the way Seoho wants.

“You mentioned before. That I’m not curious about you,” Seoho says, and Geonhak looks up at him, startled. His reaction is understandable. Seoho has a tendency to be ruthlessly blunt when picking on Geonhak for his eating habits or messy organizational skills that leave much to be desired, but he’s always evasive about the extent of his genuine affection, laughing it off the few times Geonhak had joked that Seoho didn’t like him as much as he liked Seoho. “I am. I just don’t always know how to ask, or whether I’m allowed to.”

“Seoho?” Geonhak’s eyebrows pinch together. “What do you…”

“I don’t have boundaries with you, Geonhak,” Seoho says. “So don’t…” He sighs, and rubs at his eyes. He wants to reach over and hold Geonhak’s hand, or something, for a sense of emotional security, but he just scratches at the side of his neck because it’s silly to want something you can never keep. Geonhak is watching him carefully now, as if trying to pick apart Seoho’s words for what he’s really trying to get at, and Seoho closes his eyes to avoid letting that gaze distract him. “I can’t understand people the way you do, but it doesn’t mean I don’t care. It doesn’t mean I don’t want you to tell me things.”

“Really?” Geonhak asks. 

“What do you mean, _really,_ ” Seoho asks in response. “I would have…” _done anything for you._ He takes a second to consider the right balance between words that simply offer and words that might weigh down their relationship even more, might potentially pressure Geonhak before settling on just: “I always want the best for you.” 

_And I wish the best for you, was me,_ Seoho doesn’t think, even as he traces every contour, dip, line of Geonhak’s face with his eyes at least three times over, wistful as he realizes he should have paid more attention to what Geonhak’s features felt like underneath his fingertips, should have committed the geography of Geonhak’s body to memory before he lost the chance to ask for a kind reminder. 

He almost thinks he’s said it out loud when Geonhak suddenly looks down at his lap, his bangs covering his eyes and leaving Seoho unable to gauge how much or how little what he just said meant to Geonhak. But then Geonhak lets out a chuckle, a brittle one, as he says, “It’s so hard to tell what you’re thinking, sometimes. You can be...cold.” 

_Cold._ The word Seoho hates most. 

“When it’s intentional, it doesn’t bother me,” Geonhak says. “When you don’t know you’re doing it… that’s when it feels like I’m being told to stay in my place.” 

“I don’t mean it like that,” Seoho says. It scares him, that he has no idea what Geonhak’s alluding to when he talks about Seoho’s supposed coldness towards him, because Seoho has always assumed that Geonhak knew exactly where his affections were placed, consistently believed that his desire to possess Geonhak in every way possible was written clear as day all over his face. “You should know better than anyone that you’re one of the few people I don’t do that to.” 

“I thought I knew,” Geonhak replies, “But then you…” 

“Then I _what_?” 

“Nevermind,” Geonhak says, making a frustrated noise in his throat. “It’s not an issue. This week has just been a lot.” 

Seoho wants to shake Geonhak and tell him that, _no, not nevermind,_ and _yes there’s an issue you’re not telling me,_ but he feels like he’s on a tightrope that’s about to snap and the only way for him to avoid falling is to just stay in place. “Okay.” 

“Sorry,” Geonhak says. He looks like a kicked puppy, despite how hard Seoho has tried to avoid making him feel that way, and he startles when Seoho gets out of his chair to stand close to him, squeezing one eye shut the moment Seoho presses his thumbs to Geonhak’s temples and rubs circles into the delicate skin there. “Why…?”

“Don’t shut me out,” Seoho says, because it means everything he can’t bring himself to say outright: for Geonhak to not leave, for Geonhak to trust him, for Geonhak to keep a corner of his heart open for Seoho. He fully expects Geonhak to push him away based on how much it seems like Geonhak is avoiding his touch today, but the tension seems to seep out of Geonhak’s shoulders at those words, and he rests his forehead lightly against Seoho’s stomach before decidedly pulling Seoho closer by wrapping his arms around Seoho’s waist. 

“I won’t,” Geonhak says, and Seoho should feel relieved, but all he can think about is how small and unsure Geonhak sounds, and how he can’t take that away no matter how hard he tries. 

✧ ✧ ✧ 

Hyojin’s flight lands early on a Saturday, and Seoho picks him up from the airport. Hyejoo is still sleeping in the backseat, with her favorite blanket wrapped around her to make her less grumpy at having to be awake at 9 in the morning on the weekend, while Seoho pops his trunk open and lifts Hyojin’s expensive, designer luggage over the curb and into the open compartment. 

Hyojin looks practically just as Seoho remembers him from the last time they’d met up, about a year ago, but his hair is dyed jet black now and he looks a little thinner. He never looks out of place to Seoho because Seoho has known him for too long, but the east coast influence is apparent in the way he’s dressed, cheetah print button up layered over with a lightweight blazer and wide leg trousers. The blazer is standard in cut and material except for the ruffles at the neckline, and Seoho reaches out to touch the material briefly. 

“This is California,” Seoho says, stating the obvious as he closes the trunk of his car. Hyojin laughs, getting into the passenger’s side of the car while Seoho carefully maneuvers his way to the driver’s side, waiting for a car to pass before he opens the door and gets in. “Not New York Fashion Week.” 

“Quit it,” Hyojin says. “I just got here and I’m already being attacked. This is my comfortable outfit.” 

After Seoho pulls out of where they’ve temporarily parked, turning off his blinker once he’s fully moved into the lane he needs to be in and braking for a red light, he directs a dismissive look at Hyojin, which makes Hyojin laugh again. “Comfortable?” 

“We can’t all dress like we’re about to go to the beach,” Hyojin says. Seoho can tell Hyojin’s looking at him, taking in Seoho’s black t-shirt, casual Adidas shorts and the thin shell necklace around his neck. “Surfer boy.”

“You grew up here,” Seoho says. “Be nice to me, you’re the only person I’d come to this hellhole for. I almost put on mismatching shoes in the rush to get here on time.” 

“That would have bothered you the whole drive,” Hyojin says, which makes Seoho smile at him. Sometimes Seoho thinks their friendship is weakening, what with the distance and slightly mismatched time zones, but he forgets that they’re much better together in person, affection and thoughts syncing up as soon as they’re able to bounce off of each other’s individual energies. Back when they’d met up during breaks between college terms, they would burst into delighted laughter upon seeing each other, and even Seoho’s mother had remarked more than once that they resembled two young schoolboys who were the embodiment of joy in each other’s presence, despite both of them being so mellow when alone. “I’m glad you didn’t make that mistake for your own sanity.”

“Haha.” Seoho doesn’t say much else, keeping an eye on traffic as he merges fully onto the freeway. The amount of drivers on the road is starting to increase compared to when he and Hyejoo were travelling the other direction more than an hour ago, but it’s nothing compared to the sluggish commute jam that happens on weekday afternoons. 

Hyojin hums in tune with the music Seoho has playing at a low volume. “I didn’t know you were into necklaces. Is that a new development?” 

“They were a gift,” replies Seoho. 

Hyojin makes a noise of interest. “From who? Your girlfriend?” 

“Do you even know me?” Seoho laughs. He doesn’t tell Hyojin that the necklace is a gift from Geonhak, because Hyojin doesn’t know who Geonhak is or what he means to Seoho, yet, and Seoho wants to keep that to himself at least a little longer. 

(They’d been browsing a local boutique Seoho had passed by many times but never stepped foot in, where the windows were always decorated with beaded curtains and floral tapestries, displays of various knick knacks, sculptures, and jewelry switching out every few days or so. Seoho had protested that necklaces didn’t suit him, when Geonhak had bought the shell necklace as soon as he’d seen Seoho try it on, and he’d remained vaguely aware of the way the shop owner had watched the two of them with interest while Geonhak had grinned at him unapologetically and simply declared that everything suited Seoho.) 

“I know _you_ , but not what’s going on in your personal life,” Hyojin says. “Remember when you forgot to tell me that you were going to be in town and almost didn’t visit me because you thought I was busy?” 

“I said sorry,” Seoho says. “The way you hold grudges is so…” 

“You still bring up that time I fake punched you in high school like it actually hurt you,” Hyojin says. “We’re both petty. Accept it, and tell me about who got you a necklace.” 

“Just a friend. Why don’t you tell me about your new girlfriend, first?” Seoho says, changing the subject before Hyojin can press him any further. He’s seen pictures of the woman who shows up frequently on Hyojin’s Instagram stories, often eating meals with him or drinking coffee at new cafes that look too fancy for Seoho to feel inclined to visit himself. “You have nothing to do while I drive anyways, and I think the last update I got on your love life was two years ago…?” 

“Because you don’t pick up calls or answer messages!” 

“You only told me how Natalie broke up with you one year after it happened,” Seoho says. “I know I’m not the most accessible even at my best, but even if I was, I wouldn’t have known that you were sniffling by yourself in a Shake Shack, of all places.” 

“I repress my memories in order to ignore the pain,” Hyojin says. “Respect my coping methods.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” Seoho says. “So tell me who she is.” 

“Do you know her name, at least?” Hyojin says. “I bet you don’t even read my captions.” 

“I don’t _read_ in general,” Seoho retorts, and that has Hyojin snorting unattractively before he does as Seoho says and begins explaining how he and his girlfriend met. 

As he listens, Seoho glances at his phone, propped up near the steering wheel so that he doesn’t have to take his eyes too far off the road if he wants to check it. His navigation is active in case they run into unexpected traffic and need to make an alternative route back home, and there are no new texts or messages. He’d messaged Geonhak a few times yesterday and this morning, but hadn’t received a single reply, and it makes him want to know what’s going on. 

One step forward, three steps back. It’s just Seoho’s luck that with the one relationship he cares about most, he can’t figure out how to navigate it. 

_Are you listening,_ Hyojin asks him, when he realizes Seoho isn’t making his usual noises of acknowledgement, and chastised, Seoho asks him to repeat the part before Hyojin and his girlfriend had started working together, laughing apologetically when Hyojin pretends to throw a tantrum and tells Seoho to let him out of the car. 

They have no concrete plans for the day other than to visit an art museum with an ongoing exhibit Hyojin is interested in seeing, with names that Seoho doesn’t recognize and doesn’t particularly care about either, and Hyojin makes a noise of disbelief when he realizes this, vowing to turn Seoho from an uncultured brat into a brat with taste. 

They’ve always been different like that, Seoho somehow avoiding learning any real terms or names because they don’t stick in his memory as much as the concepts do, while Hyojin probably has a notebook dedicated to every new hobby he acquires, detailing notes on the history of the craft and notable accomplishments made in the field by specific creators. 

Seoho lets Hyojin educate him on the exhibit artists’ personal and educational backgrounds over breakfast at a cafe Seoho likes to visit if he has a little bit of extra time before heading to work. It’s even nicer to sit in on the days where he’s not being rushed by any work obligations afterwards, and today is one of the nicest visits he’s had in a while. There’s no pressure here because Seoho knows what to expect, and Hyojin is one of the rare few people in Seoho’s life who don’t make him feel self conscious about leading even if it’s pertaining to small decisions like this. He sits still long enough for Hyojin to take a photo of him and post it to social media, alerting everyone with a bright, white-lettered caption that he’s managed to get a coffee date with _the_ elusive creature that is Lee Seoho. 

Hyojin takes a picture with Hyejoo, too, but doesn’t post it, just sends it to Seoho’s phone. “So cute, unlike your dad,” he tells her, and Hyejoo giggles so happily at the compliment that Seoho decides he feels generous enough to spare Hyojin’s life for one more day. 

“Don’t be obnoxious,” Seoho says, when he logs into his account to double check what exactly Hyojin has written and sighs upon reading it. “Now I’m going to get a bunch of demanding _what about me_ messages from our old friends.” 

“As you should,” Hyojin replies. He sticks out his tongue at Seoho, and Seoho narrows his eyes in faux irritation. “They always ask about you, and what you’re up to. It’s about time they stopped coming to me for answers, although that’s what they’ve always done whenever they wanted to know anything about you.” 

“What? Why?”

“Because they haven’t figured out yet that you’re a raccoon who shows up if someone treats you to a meal one on one,” Hyojin says. “Weirdo. Aren’t group meet ups easier?” 

“They’re easier to avoid,” Seoho replies, simply. The spotlight is easier to deflect when there’s only one person trying to shine it on him. “And I haven’t been up to anything worthwhile these days, I think.” 

“Says the man who’s brought success to so many writers,” Hyojin says. “You’re infuriating.”

“Me?”

“Yes, _you,_ ” Hyojin says, sounding as if he’s going to do something silly like compliment Seoho when both of them know Seoho doesn’t need it, and Seoho drops a stray blueberry from Hyojin’s plate of half eaten pancakes into his butterfly lemonade, inducing a displeased shriek from Hyojin and causing him to promptly forget what he was about to say. 

The exhibit is fine. Tickets are a little expensive for adults, but neither Hyojin nor Seoho mind, and he likes the mindlessness of tagging a few feet behind Hyejoo and Hyojin, who are much more enthusiastic than he is about the various art pieces and installations on display. Seoho buys a small wooden frog figurine for Hyejoo, though, when he notices her circling around the display it’s been propped up on in the gift shop multiple times, and the small, pleased smile on her face as she holds it in her palms the whole drive home, is enough of a reason to make Seoho think the trip and the hefty price of the frog was worth it. 

✧ ✧ ✧ 

For some reason, Geonhak being too busy to reply to Seoho’s messages somehow translates in Seoho’s mind as Geonhak not being in the shop either. He figures that maybe today is the weekend of the tattoo convention even if he kept forgetting to ask, and that Geonhak could very well be in a completely different city. 

That’s why, when Hyejoo asks if they can visit _Sapphire Sun_ after a late lunch at an Asian fusion restaurant nearby chosen by Hyojin, Seoho lets her do as she pleases, thinking they’ll only get Xion watching more episodes of his favorite crime drama on his phone with the new sunflower singing doll he’s bought recently bursting into song every once in a while. Hyojin follows along, and Seoho can tell that he’s curious to see the reason behind Hyejoo’s burst of excitement because Hyejoo doesn’t show much interest in anything other than Seoho, drawing and painting, the occasional game of Candy Crush, and cats. 

Seoho is surprised to find the silhouette of a blue haired man that feels as familiar as it does unfamiliar, when they step inside and the bell rings with the door opening, because Geonhak looks significantly more tired than normal, and he’s dressed in a way that doesn’t quite match his usual choice of fashion. Even if Seoho isn’t used to seeing him like this, Geonhak doesn’t look any less gorgeous, sporting a dark navy dress shirt with the top two buttons undone and black work slacks that probably don’t get worn very much, fold lines still visible on the sides of the pant legs. 

“Geonhak!” Hyejoo says, and Geonhak turns at the sound of her voice. 

“Hyejoo,” he says, putting down the folder he’s sorting through before he looks in their direction again and sees Seoho, and Hyojin. He bows slightly, manners kicking in quickly and replacing his confusion. “Seoho? What are you doing here?” 

“I didn’t think you would be here, or else I would have sent you a message first,” Seoho says. Geonhak frowns for a moment before his mouth drops partially open in realization. He must have been busy, because he looks like he hasn’t checked his phone in a while. “Hyejoo wanted to come visit since we were in the area, but I guess Xion isn’t in today?” 

“Xion has the second half of the day off,” Geonhak says. He shifts his weight and tilts his head to scrunch his nose at Hyejoo, who then skips towards him until she comes to a halt right before colliding with him. “May I know who your friend...Hyojin, I guess?” 

“Oh! How do you know who I am?” Hyojin asks, as he and Seoho step further into the shop and approach Geonhak. 

“Seoho mentioned you would be in town,” Geonhak says. He looks at Seoho unsurely, and Seoho raises his eyebrows, but Geonhak’s looking away again like he’d never made eye contact in the first place. His undereyes are dark, fatigue evident in the slight discoloration of the skin there, and Seoho can smell a combination of sweat, cologne, and hair products on him when Geonhak gets close. “Nice to meet you, I’m Geonhak. I’m...” 

He glances at Seoho again, and Seoho, realizing what Geonhak wants him to establish, takes the safe route. “My friend,” Seoho says, watching Geonhak shake hands with Hyojin. “Geonhak is a friend.” 

Almost immediately, Geonhak’s fingers brush against Seoho’s hip before settling and flattening against the small of Seoho’s back, nails digging lightly into the material of Seoho’s shirt. If Seoho wanted to overthink it, he’d interpret the gesture as one made out of possessiveness, even if no other part of Geonhak betrays a particularly strong emotion on his end. 

Seoho wants so many answers, but they’re answers to questions he’s afraid to ask. 

“You could have introduced him to me as your boyfriend,” Hyojin says, when Hyejoo and Geonhak go up to the second floor. Hyejoo wants Geonhak to show her the recent tattoo pieces he’s done because she knows he takes photos for records, and he’s always more than willing to oblige with her. It’s reassuring that his behavior towards her hasn’t changed, despite everything, and Seoho doesn’t think he’ll ever get tired of the way Hyejoo’s eyes light up when she asks a question and Geonhak answers it in full detail, bright enough to fill the whole room. 

“What?” Seoho says, before he turns to look at Hyojin. 

“I wouldn’t have teased you, or anything,” Hyojin says. “He looked upset when you said he was a friend.” 

Seoho squints, still feeling the ghost heat of Geonhak’s palm against the small of his back from a minute ago. It’s growing more apparent that his feelings aren’t as subtle as he would like them to be, but Hyojin also has the power of their history together on his side, considering they’ve known each other for nearly half of their lives. Hyojin has seen Seoho at his best and his worst, has witnessed how Seoho behaves around the people he’s drawn to as well as the people that make him feel like he’s pulling teeth out just listening to them. “It’s not like that.” 

“Really?” Hyojin looks thoughtful, now, as the pool of emotions Seoho’s submerged in ripples at the pebble of curiosity skipping across its surface. Seoho doesn’t know whether that’s better or worse. He can avoid texts and phone calls, but not Hyojin’s playful grin and conjectures often proven later to be correct. “Could have fooled me. Does Hyejoo know?” 

“Know what?” Seoho asks miserably. Hyojin blinks at him, not getting it because he still thinks Seoho’s being purposefully elusive, and Seoho fiddles with the earrings on his ear as he sighs. “ _I_ don’t know anything, so why would she?” 

Hyojin makes a knowing _ah,_ glancing up towards the second floor. “You were with him that morning, when I called you. Right?” He laughs when Seoho’s ears answer the question for him, turning red as Seoho refuses to admit anything. “Have you talked to him about it?” 

“I don’t know if I…” Seoho trails off, losing steam. He feels like a teenager again, no coherency whatsoever when it comes to processing or disposing of his feelings towards Geonhak, and it frustrates him to no end. Even with Seunghee, he’d never really lost his footing even if she had a tendency to take out her emotions on him, so it makes no sense that Geonhak leaves Seoho feeling so restless even when he’s doing absolutely nothing. “Want to.” 

“Do you not want…” 

Seoho pinches at his brow bone with his thumb and middle finger a few times before sliding them up his temples. He thinks about Xion’s casual remark that Geonhak is usually _generous_ until it comes to Seoho, then remembers the stranger who’d touched Geonhak so casually, pulling him close while Seoho struggles to close the distance between him and Geonhak in the moments that he needs to do so most. “It’s complicated.” 

“If you want an outsider’s perspective...” Hyojin says, pitching his voice to a lower volume, “the attachment isn’t casual, on his end.” 

“He’s just friendly,” Seoho says. Embarrassment crawls up his neck and into the crown of his hair, settling there. “It doesn’t mean anything.” 

“Friendly? I’m not so sure about that, and the touchiness definitely means something,” Hyojin says, with a raised eyebrow. “Do you think he’d run down here if he saw me hugging you?” 

“Shut up,” Seoho says.

“I hadn’t realized he’d be so good with children, though,” Hyojin says. Seoho considers what Geonhak looks like in Hyojin’s eyes, with his undercut, tattoos on a thicker build and his facial features that only fully soften when he’s gotten a little more comfortable with someone. “He doesn’t look the part, but Hyejoo’s really carefree around him, if that’s the word. She’s usually nervous with adults, right?” 

“He works as a substitute teacher sometimes at the elementary school,” Seoho says. “That’s how we met, I guess, although very few people working in education are that good with kids.”

“That must have been how he got you,” Hyojin says, smirking, and he makes a cooing noise when Seoho doesn’t deny it. “Aw man. Hyejoo really is the key to your heart.” 

“He talks to her so sweetly,” Seoho says. He covers his face with his hands in a futile attempt to prevent the heat from rushing to his cheeks, and Hyojin laughs. “And he’s gentle.” 

“Of course he is~” Hyojin says as he leans in, voice all squeaky like he’s a grade schooler about to taunt Seoho for having feelings. “I’m sure it helps that he looks like _that._ ” 

“One and a half decades of friendship will not stop me from punching you in the face if you don’t cut that shit out,” Seoho says, lifting his head to glare at his best friend. “What happened to not teasing?” 

“If you’d been open about it from the beginning I wouldn’t have teased you,” Hyojin says defiantly. “Is he the one who gave you that necklace?”

“Maybe,” Seoho says. He should have just said he’d bought it himself, although that would have made Hyojin suspicious too. “Hyojin…”

“Fine, fine,” Hyojin says, holding up his hands in a truce. “You just looked tense all day, and then I figured it out when I saw him look at you and you got even _more_ tense.” 

Seoho scrunches his nose. “That’s a lie.” 

“Is it?” Hyojin asks, and then he shrugs when Seoho frowns at him. “Just…if anything goes wrong or you get hurt, let me know. I don’t mind murdering him or anyone else for you, okay? I’ll hop on the first flight available and he’s going to be gone in less than a day.” 

“Can you take _me_ out?” Seoho whispers, a line reminiscent of their conversations when they were still in school. Hyojin isn’t expecting it at all, and he barks out a surprised laugh despite having heard it several times before. “Like a sniper.” 

Hyojin picks a piece of lint out of Seoho’s hair. “No can do,” he says. He bats his eyelashes, and Seoho pretends to be too disgusted to look. “Then there’d be no one to take me out, and there’s no point in living on an Earth without you in it—” 

“I’m sure you have enough enemies who’d be glad to do it for you,” Seoho retorts, before he ducks out of the way when Hyojin tries to hit him on the arm. 

“I can’t believe I forgot about how mean you are,” Hyojin says. “Everyone else in my life is so much nicer to me. Why did I bother visiting you?” 

“Because kindness gets boring,” Seoho says. “That’s why you keep coming back to me, loser. For the excitement.” 

“You might like it when people cry because of you, but I assure you, I don’t enjoy this kind of disrespect.” 

“Is that the sound of denial?” 

And then they start talking over each other, old patterns as familiar as the back of their hands, and as Hyojin bumps him in the hip for daring to criticize his prized pair of denim-leather overall catastrophe, Seoho reminds himself that some days are more chilly than others, and that it’s better to latch onto happiness in the small things instead of spending his whole life longing for things that aren’t guaranteed to him. 

✧ ✧ ✧ 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (hey u are now 2/3 of the way through! consider dropping a comment if u are Enjoying so i can feel some Validation and Warmth in my creator cave) 
> 
> boop kiss


	3. Chapter 3

✧ ✧ ✧ 

Geonhak calls late in the evening, nearly half past ten. Seoho doesn’t catch it fast enough the first time because he’s brushing his teeth, but he calls Geonhak back as soon as he finishes that up and washes his face, skin still a little damp when Geonhak picks up. 

“Did you have something you needed to talk to me about?” Seoho asks. “You don’t usually call this late.” 

“I thought you were choosing not to pick up,” Geonhak says. 

“I was brushing my teeth, Geonhak,” Seoho says. It feels like Geonhak wants to pick a fight, but Geonhak’s voice sounds off, and it’s rare that they bicker over the phone when they rely so heavily on watching each other’s body language and face to face reactions. “Is something wrong?” 

“No,” Geonhak says, too quickly, and Seoho considers the fatigue that had been written all over Geonhak’s face when they met earlier, how he’d smiled thinly at Hyejoo when Seoho had wanted to get going in order to drop Hyojin off at his hotel at a reasonable hour and they’d had to say goodbye. Seoho had wanted to ask him if he was doing okay, but Hyojin and Hyejoo had been watching, and… a part of Seoho had been afraid that if he asked, Geonhak wouldn’t have told him anyway. “Did you spend most of the day with Hyojin?” 

“Yeah,” Seoho says. “He wanted to go to an art exhibit in downtown LA, so we went with Hyejoo.” 

“You’re so close with him,” Geonhak murmurs. 

“I told you we were best friends,” Seoho says. “Isn’t it natural?” 

“It made me…” Geonhak says, and Seoho lets himself sprawl out on the couch, legs dangling off the side of it because he doesn’t want to tuck them in before they hit the armrests and feel cramped. Geonhak doesn’t finish his sentence, choosing to start another one. A common pattern, these days. “You told me not to shut you out.” 

“I did,” Seoho says. 

“Today was hard,” Geonhak admits. “And I’m tired.” 

“...Why?” Seoho bites on his lip, hesitating. He doesn’t know why he feels like he’s going to say something wrong when there’s nothing for him to feel guilty or bad for, when he’s been trying his best to keep a distance that ensures Geonhak staying as long as possible. “Was today the convention?” 

“Yeah,” Geonhak says. He sighs, and the exhaustion of it is so raw that Seoho feels the breeze of it rush into his own chest, too. “I had to deal with people I didn’t want to see, and smile all day.” 

“You’re much better at that than me, though,” Seoho says. He thinks about those first few days he’d met Geonhak, and how Geonhak had smiled at the parents who were watching him with a critical eye, extending kindness even when they were so intent on judging him based on what they saw. “Don’t you do it regularly?” 

“Doesn’t mean I want to keep on doing it,” Geonhak says, and Seoho hums. Geonhak’s next words come out in a soft, quiet rush. “I wish you had...that you had been there.” 

“Me?” Seoho asks. He hadn’t realized that Geonhak had wanted to invite him, and he isn’t sure either if Geonhak’s just saying that as a passing whim. “Do I even belong in a place like that?” He can’t picture it, honestly. He remembers attending a friend’s church performance as a child, a large production that had left Seoho starry eyed by the end of it even if he hadn’t been brought up religious, but even more distinctly, he remembers his friend leaving him alone despite Seoho knowing practically no one else there, and Seoho had followed his school teacher around until his parents had come to pick him up. Out of place, in so many ways and for so many years. Seoho has lost the courage to try actively participating in other people’s lives because the emotional input isn’t worth what little output he gets back. 

“Yes,” Geonhak says, pausing, and then he clears his throat. “They allow guests. I would have taken care of you, if you’d felt bored or lonely.” 

“Let me know, next time,” Seoho says. He doesn’t know how many more _next times_ he’s going to get with Geonhak, but it’s not something he can ask for a countdown to, so Seoho tucks away want and attachment and obsession, offering the most selfless generosity he can manage. “Whether it’s this, or another event. I’ll come with you and entertain you by picking on you, okay?” 

“Okay,” Geonhak says. 

_You’re so close with him,_ Seoho recalls Geonhak saying when he’s trying to fall asleep, longer after his phone call with Geonhak has ended. _It made me…_

“Made you _what,_ Geonhak?” Seoho mumbles to himself, trying his best not to let wandering desires and longing get the better of his logic. He wonders why today had made Geonhak so sad, and he hopes that it wasn’t because of him. 

✧ ✧ ✧ 

Seunghee doesn’t usually call. 

Toeing at the tanbark that’s spilled over the wooden perimeters of the playground, Seoho keeps an eye on where Hyejoo is doing tricks on the low bars as a call from his ex-wife comes in. He’d been interested in the same pastimes when he was Hyejoo’s age, funnily enough, but hopefully Hyejoo is better at avoiding trouble than he had been. 

“I want to meet with you,” Seunghee says, after he accepts the call and they’ve exchanged polite greetings. “Just you. Do you think you’ll be able to set aside some time?” 

Her voice crackles through the phone speaker, but the tiniest hint of desperation clings at the outskirts of her words because she most likely knows Seoho won’t want to agree. If she knows, she shouldn’t ask, but Seoho knows he’s always been difficult when it comes to her. 

“Me?” Seoho echoes. It’s enough, that he has to look at her for even the briefest of moments whenever he drops Hyejoo off at Seunghee’s apartment, is forced to remember years-old conversations and the vividness of tension that had made him feel like he would freeze to death no matter how hard he tried to break through the ice. “I thought we’d agreed that you’d only meet with Hyejoo whenever it worked for our respective schedules.” 

“I know that,” Seunghee says. Then she sighs, and Seoho hates that he always ends up feeling like a villain whenever he doesn’t give in to her wishes, right when he’d been starting to feel a little more willing to forgive himself for misunderstandings and mistakes from the past. “Seoho, you’re always so…” 

“So what?” Seoho says. 

“Cold,” Seunghee replies, and Seoho thinks that they’d made each other that way, because they’d been warm as individuals when they first met. Time and mismatched intentions had, slowly but surely, allowed for compassion to fade out through their extremities and slip through the cracks of Seoho’s fingers despite all his efforts to stop the chill from coming in. “Hasn’t it been long enough that you stop talking like that to me?” 

“You want to be friends now, or something?” Seoho says. It’s going to sting, he knows, even if he manages to keep his tone of voice lighthearted. “I wasn’t the one who couldn’t bear to talk to you when we first separated.” 

“It was hard on me,” Seunghee says. “You do know that, right? I might have been the one who wanted to leave but it was hard on me, too.” 

(“ _Is it just going to be us from now on?_ ” a younger Hyejoo had asked, after Seunghee had packed her bags with all her most important belongings and gotten the fuck out of their lives as soon as the paperwork had been finalized. Hyejoo had stared at Seoho in confusion, pain not yet settling in because Seoho hadn’t known how to explain the concept of _going away for good_ , hadn’t known how to tell her that those empty drawers and hangers in the closet would remain empty for a long time. What he had known was that things would become difficult for them in many, many ways no matter how good of a parent he strived to be, and he had been so afraid to mess it all up. 

“ _Yes_ ,” Seoho had said. “ _Do you think you can be brave for me, chipmunk?_ ” Hyejoo had nodded in response, and Seoho had wordlessly tucked her face against his neck as he squeezed her in a tight, desperate hug.) 

“You set the rules, and I let you because I wanted you to be happy and safe and comfortable,” Seoho says. He’s cracked all of his knuckles until they no longer make that satisfying clicking noise, and now he can only press at them until they turn white. “So why do you want to change them now?” 

“People change,” Seunghee says, sounding torn. It’s good if that means she can relate to a fraction of what she’s put Seoho through. “Why do you act like that’s impossible?” 

The thing about change, Seoho wants to tell her, is not that it’s impossible but that timing matters. He was there for himself when he fell apart, there for himself when he painstakingly put himself back together as quickly as possible so that Hyejoo wouldn’t notice anything was wrong when the sun came up. To accept kindness is to also accept that you may one day lose it, and he wonders if Seunghee has realized yet what she lost in making Seoho believe he was selfish because he wasn’t letting her be as selfish as _she_ wanted to be. 

“People don’t change,” Seoho says. He used to shake whenever he talked to her and she upset him, but now he just feels numb, no more fury left running through his bloodstream, just resignation. “They get old, and they start having regrets, and their conscience catches up with them. We change because it makes us feel better to think we’ve made improvements compared to when we were twenty and reckless. Isn’t that why you’re reaching out to me?” 

“So let me clear my conscience, Seoho,” Seunghee says. “I can’t fix all the things I’ve done wrong, but I’m trying my best with you.” 

“I don’t need it,” Seoho says. “But if it helps you sleep better at night, fine. We can meet.” 

“Thank you,” Seunghee says. She keeps sighing, and Seoho keeps holding in his. “Really. I know this is a lot to ask of you so it means...” 

_For giving you whatever you ask for? You’re welcome,_ Seoho wants to say just to hear her flinch, but the intensity of it would be lost to the barrier of them not seeing each other’s faces, and Seoho has never been as angry as he is sad and tired of all the things that chase him even when he’s lost the strength to continue running. 

✧ ✧ ✧ 

Seoho doesn’t realize how exhausted he is by the day’s, week’s accumulative events and Seunghee’s phone call until Hyejoo plops down onto the couch next to him, after dinner. She’s watching him solemnly, and Seoho doesn’t wait for her to break the silence this time. “What’s wrong, chipmunk?” 

“Did something happen?” Hyejoo asks. 

Seoho shakes his head. He’s still restless, unable to shake off his discomfort from earlier, but it’s not something he wants to unload on Hyejoo even if she can sense that something isn’t right. 

She pouts. “Did you have a fight with Geonhak?” 

“Not really,” Seoho says dully, and Hyejoo picks up on it even though she doesn’t push him to admit that the answer, actually, is something closer to being along the lines of _yes._ What little distance Seoho has been able to close between him and Geonhak has been minimal at best, maybe even regressive after the day Geonhak had come back from the tattoo convention as bleak as a rain cloud, mood somehow turning even more odd at night. 

It’s not so much a fight as it is Seoho being bad with words when he’s always had them under control, bad with people because he’ll never be brave enough to give more than he gets back, and bad with feelings because he hates having expectations that make him feel like a child waiting to be rewarded with candy. Even worse, it feels like Geonhak is slipping away from him no matter how little or how much Seoho loosens his grip in his desperation to be kept in some form and capacity, and Seoho is trying to accept that maybe Geonhak was always meant to be a momentary presence rather than a permanent part of his life. 

“You’ve been acting weird,” Hyejoo says, and Seoho lets out a sigh slow and quiet enough for it to sound like he’s just exhaling. He bets it doesn’t fool her at all. They know each other too well for them to have any real secrets between them even if there are words he’s not letting himself say to her. “Geonhak, too.”

“It’s nothing,” Seoho says. Just a weird patch before he inevitably takes whatever lingering, undeserving, unwanted attachment he has towards Geonhak and succeeds in stuffing it into a cardboard box to shove inside the back of his closet, along with his abandoned art and all the pipe dreams he pretends he never had.

Hyejoo’s lower lip trembles. “Is it my fault?” 

“God, no,” Seoho says. He pulls Hyejoo into his lap, and her mouth goes even more wobbly, a reminder that while Seoho may let his emotions blow over until they finally go quiet, she’s the true reflection of how helpless he feels on the inside when he’s not trying to be anything other than himself. “Why would you ever think that?” 

“Because I said I wanted Geonhak to stay forever,” Hyejoo says. Her voice goes a little shrill as her eyes gloss over with rare, unshed tears that finally spill over, and as Seoho rushes to wipe them away with his thumbs, telling her that it’s okay and that she hasn’t done anything wrong, he realizes he’s never told her that he wants the exact same thing. 

“I don’t want it anymore if it’s going to make you mad,” Hyejoo says. Seoho would get tissues, but she’s starting to get inconsolable, and he doesn’t want to move around too much and make her feel like she’s being a nuisance. 

“No,” Seoho says, swallowing. Even if he’d really been against the idea, he would have never, ever been upset with her for wanting something so pure. “I love you, so much, and I’m not mad at all. Please don’t think that.” 

“So what’s wrong?” Hyejoo asks, sniffling as she blinks away her tears that have now stopped. Seoho pats her back comfortingly. “How do I make things go back to the way they were?” 

“I’m not sure, Hyejoo,” Seoho says, peeling himself back as far as he can to offer his vulnerability at its purest, and all he can do to try and make up for the uncertainty he’s inflicting on her is hug her close, squeezing his eyes shut when he feels her small arms wrap around his neck just as tight. “I’m not sure.”

✧ ✧ ✧ 

Seunghee is waiting for him in the lobby, when he comes down to the first floor for lunch after making a rare acceptance to Youngjo’s invitation to share a meal. 

He doesn’t recognize her at first, until he hears an eerily familiar yet emotionally distant calling of his name. Then he turns, and sees her. 

Seunghee’s hair is shorter now, colored a light brown that brings out the gold undertones of her irises, and she’s wearing a pastel yellow blazer and skirt with matching floral prints. She has her hands placed neatly in front of her, clutching onto a little purse that probably doesn’t have space to hold anything other than her phone, barely, and a small compact mirror. 

Across from each other, their differences must be stark. Day and night, really, what with Seoho in all black attire aside from his maroon rust hair and Seunghee in colors bright enough to blind, looking as if she’s stepped off the magazine cover of a spring themed photoshoot. 

“Is this the nonexistent partner you were avoiding telling me about?” Youngjo asks, quietly. He’s trying to keep things lighthearted, Seoho can tell, but he’s obviously noticed the atmosphere dampening as soon as Seoho and Seunghee make eye contact. “I would have let you go on a date if you’d just told me, instead of giving me that sour face.” 

The sour expression hadn’t been made for Youngjo, but for the message he’d gotten earlier from Seunghee asking if they could meet for lunch. Seoho hadn’t replied, still thrown off from their phone call a week ago, and he hadn’t thought Seunghee would be serious enough to show up at his workplace to follow through. It doesn’t particularly bother him that she’d actually made use of the business card he gave her however many years ago, when he’d switched jobs and wanted to update her on it. What bothers him is _why_ she’s here. 

“Can we talk?” Seunghee says. “I won’t take long, if you don’t have the time.” 

“Since you’ve gone to the effort of coming in person, I’ll make the time,” Seoho says. He smiles, in case she finds his tone of voice too _cold,_ and Seunghee gives him an uncertain look, like she wants to walk on eggshells around him even when she’d already crushed them to sharp dust by showing up like this. 

“Sorry,” Seunghee says to Youngjo, who waves his hands in easy dismissal at her apology, on his best behavior even though he’s understandably puzzled by the situation. “Seoho’s schedules have been hard to match up to mine, so…” 

“No need,” Youngjo says. “May I ask who you are…?” 

“She’s my ex-wife,” Seoho says, curtly, and he can feel Youngjo’s eyeballs dropping out of his sockets like marbles at the revelation. He lets them introduce themselves to each other before he’s following Seunghee out the door, his lunch plans with Youngjo cancelled until another day. 

Seoho lets Seunghee choose where they go to talk, although both of them agree that a coffee shop would be good. He’s learned to be even more accommodating in the years that they’ve been separated, and she’s always been the type to want to make the decisions without relying on anyone else’s opinions or contextual knowledge, even if it means she’ll end up taking more time to get the same result. 

Anxiety knots itself into a not so pretty pretzel at the bottom of Seoho’s stomach as he watches Seunghee order some glorified version of lemonade with excessive, flowery words added to its name to make it sound special. She’s been relatively quiet the whole time save for some small talk Seoho hadn’t really absorbed even if he’d had cookie-cutter answers ready, and it means that there’s a possibility a bigger wave is coming, one he doesn’t expect. 

“I’m getting married,” Seunghee says, when she and Seoho have sat down at a table for two. 

To a stranger passing by, they might look like lovers meeting in a shared slot of free time. 

To Seoho, they’re strangers. 

He picks a piece of lint off of his black slacks. “Oh,” he says, when she doesn’t continue. “That’s nice. Congratulations.” 

“You don’t seem very surprised,” Seunghee says. 

“You wouldn’t have come to see me in person if you had nothing important to say,” Seoho says. He’d suspected something along those lines, considering she’s dressed up more than what he remembers from the last time he brought Hyejoo to visit her, although he thinks an announcement over the phone would have sufficed. “I know that much about you, at least.”

“You’re right. You’re hardly ever surprised by anything, though, so I don’t know what I was expecting,” says Seunghee. She looks wistful, staring just past Seoho into the distance, and Seoho hopes she isn’t recalling any of their memories together. Seoho set fire to those a long, long time ago, and he wouldn’t be pleased with anyone for trying to bring them back to life, including her. “Can I ask if you’re seeing anyone?”

Seoho takes a first sip of his coffee, scrunching his nose when it leaves a weird smell on every inhale and a bad aftertaste in his mouth. Just his luck today, that he’s meeting Seunghee and drinking poorly made coffee, too, while sitting in a corner of the shop that has sunlight shining painfully into his eyes if he’s not sitting in the exact right position to avoid it. 

He hates that Seunghee’s question makes him think about Geonhak. Makes him wish it were Geonhak sitting across from him with the smile that Seoho never knew to treasure until he stopped seeing it directed at him, the smile Seoho hadn’t allowed himself to acknowledge as anything more than friendly the first day they’d met, the smile Seoho had let come closer and closer until he was tasting it and breathing it, and… 

The slow drifting stripes of sunlight wouldn’t be so troublesome, if Geonhak were here. Seoho wouldn’t mind them as much with better company, and Geonhak would probably offer to switch seats so that he was the one to bear the discomfort, then ask two more times just to make sure after Seoho tells him that it’s okay, he doesn’t mind it. 

Seoho wonders what Geonhak would order. Whether Geonhak would lack enough self-preservation to venture into taking a sip of Seoho’s coffee, whether he’d squeeze his eyes shut at the bitterness and take extra sips of his own presumably sweeter drink to compensate for it, as Seoho laughs at him. 

It doesn’t really matter, though, because Geonhak isn’t here, and Seoho is on his own to tough out the conversations he doesn’t want to have because Seunghee never gives him a choice no matter how accommodating she thinks she is. “Does it matter?” 

“It does, to me,” Seunghee says. “I know we didn’t… part in the best of ways, but we didn’t separate because of anything horribly dramatic, either, so I want you to know that I’m still... _here,_ even if you like to pretend I’m not.” 

Their relationship didn’t go up in flames, sure, but there are still cracks in Seoho that he’s never patched up, never took the time to fill in and let heal before he was up and running again. All this time, he’s been trying to keep it together on the outside so that no one would know the truth: that he’d fallen apart so long ago and still resents that he’s never known how to properly recover from it. 

At the very least, Seunghee should know better than to try and fix what she broke, like coming back with intentions a little better than before is somehow enough to recover what’s already been lost for years. Seoho likes everything in his life clean-cut, especially his relationships, and Seunghee is the one frayed string he tolerates and leaves hanging despite how frustrating the unraveling threads are, because Hyejoo is still too young to decide whether she wants to keep Seunghee in her life and Seoho is not going to take that away from her among all the other things Hyejoo has already missed out on. 

“Okay,” Seoho says, face shuttering. “I know.” 

“You weren’t like this before,” Seunghee says. She shifts in her seat, uncomfortable, when Seoho glances up sharply at her. “You weren’t so closed off.” 

_You made me like this,_ Seoho thinks, and wonders if she can hear him as he stares at her. _Didn’t you know?_

“Am I supposed to suddenly spill all the details of my life to you just because you’ve decided to care again for a few minutes?” Seoho asks, calmly, and Seunghee looks like she’s been burned even though they’re sitting four feet apart and the words spilling out of Seoho’s mouth are barely audible unless someone’s really listening for them. “If I smile and congratulate you on figuring your life out, am I required to continue being endlessly nice to you for the rest of eternity?” 

“I want you to be doing well,” Seunghee says. She stirs the straw in her drink, ice cubes rattling against the plastic walls of the cup noisily. If it were anyone else, Seoho would reach over with a napkin to wipe away the ring of condensation at the bottom of the cup.“And for me to be able to ask whether that’s the case. Is wanting even that little too greedy of me?” 

“Yes,” Seoho replies, and she frowns at him, before she just sighs and lets go of her drink to examine her nails. They’re the color of the sky, tinged with a bit of violet, with a hard, glossy surface to them that means she’d gotten them done at a fancy nail salon. Hyejoo sometimes comes home from visits with the same treatment on her nails, but without the added nail length. 

“I didn’t ask to meet you just to tell you I was getting married,” Seunghee admits eventually. 

Seoho hadn’t expected that. “So what else is there?” 

“I was…” Seunghee starts, before pausing. “I was thinking of asking what you thought about Hyejoo coming to live with me.” 

“Live with you?” Seoho echoes, going silent for a few seconds. Then the disbelief starts to build up in him, slow at first but growing ever potent as his thoughts accelerate. “We separated and you left when she was barely able to walk. What makes you suddenly want to be her mom now?” He takes a deep breath, before thinking _to hell with composure._ “What put you up to this?” 

Seunghee seems taken aback at the outburst from Seoho, as quiet and watered down as it is compared to other people’s, but her mouth is set into a firm line. “My fiance… he’s a few years older than me, and he has a son from a previous marriage, who’s a little older than Hyejoo. He’s… a good man, and I thought…” 

“Hyejoo’s not an _object_ for you to put in your family like a prop that completes a picture’s composition,” Seoho says, indignant. He can see where she’s coming from, and it’s both a blessing and a curse because the motives behind her request hurt him where he’s weakest, reminding him that as one parent, he’s nothing compared to two no matter how hard he tries. If he could, he’d split himself half to give Hyejoo double the care and attention she deserves, but he can’t. “Are you kidding me?” 

“I’m serious,” Seunghee says. “I know it’s ridiculous, but I hope you can give it some thought, at least, even if your answer is still no in the end. I want to give her a chance at a normal upbringing, even if the transition is a little uncomfortable at first.” 

“Normal,” Seoho says. “Right.” 

“Not that I mean you’ve been doing anything wrong,” Seunghee says. She sighs again, and Seoho doesn’t lose his temper, ever, but he wants to tell her that he’s the one who should be sighing considering the amount of hellfire she’s made him walk through for every single one of her whims ever since they’d met. “I just… I just think maybe she’d be better off growing up in a traditional family. You know, with a mom and dad to dote on her.” 

_Traditional. Mom. Dad. Normal._

Words, when isolated, are so innocent. Then they’re given context and bias, grouped together with other words to convey an opinion, a core thought of the person speaking them, and they can either warm your heart or drench it in ice cold and sharp enough to split skin. 

“What is that supposed to mean?” The words come out sharper than Seoho intends, more affected than he wants to sound, he thinks, because it’s obvious what she’s hinting at and he has no clue how she’d jumped to that kind of a conclusion when Seoho hasn’t opened up to her in years, and will most likely never do so in this life. It feels like she’s peering inside of windows he doesn’t want anyone to see through yet, and the intensity of his own anger has him staring at his hands in silence as Seunghee watches him carefully. 

“You have a boyfriend, don’t you?” Seunghee says, slowly. “The pictures you posted of you and that guy on your Instagram. I’m sure he’s nice, but Hyejoo needs—” her words fade out of Seoho’s hearing, as he’s plunged back into the memories of that day. 

_Your smile’s heart shaped, did you know that?_ Geonhak had said, before he’d published the post, and Seoho hadn’t really cared or bothered to look, just smiled at Geonhak and told him to hurry up and give Seoho’s phone back. Geonhak had kept it for a few more minutes, anyways, playing Candy Crush out of curiosity until he’d used up all of Seoho’s lives and pouted at the difficulty of the levels that involved getting rid of persistent bubblegum. Seoho had been looking through manuscripts by the time Geonhak was done and crawled over to him, and Geonhak had hooked his chin over Seoho’s shoulder to watch quietly as Seoho wrote legible suggestions in the margins of the paper. 

Seoho has always been careless, in a way, when he gets a rare taste of happiness. Joy is most concentrated in the moments where Geonhak is just looking at him, listening, sensing, feeling, like they’ve been transported to a planet made just for the two of them, seas of crimson and sapphire flooding into each other until they’re both turning violet. 

Only Seoho doesn’t have that Geonhak anymore, but a Geonhak who avoids touching him, smiles wide and bright at Hyejoo while holding back half uttered sentences in front of a Seoho who’s doing his best to listen. 

Seoho had forgotten what it felt like to be greedy until he’d met Geonhak because he can only see what’s missing now even if life has given him a glass that’s half full, and that has heat rising up in him, steady and inevitable. Transparency is a dangerous thing, even more so when you don’t want it, can’t control it. Whether it’s embarrassment or anger or frustration, he can’t tell, but his nostrils flare as he says, “I can’t just have _friends?_ ” 

Seoho had forgotten that society’s eyes are scrutinizing, and the people who can hurt you the most are the people who you once thought you could trust. 

“You can,” Seunghee says. “I’m not saying this because I think us not working out suddenly means you’re gay. It was just always…” 

“Always what?” 

“Always obvious your heart wasn’t in it when you were with me,” Seunghee says, and that makes Seoho want to curl up deep into himself, turn off all sound in the world so he doesn’t have to hear anything ever again. “You treat me like a stranger, Seoho, but just for a second, will you stop pretending that I wasn’t ever married to you, stop pretending that I don’t know what you’re like?” 

“I had a different kind of love for you than what you wanted,” Seoho says. It’s the first time he’s said something so honest, so raw to Seunghee, and she recognizes it too because her eyes go wide. Seoho had done his best to live up to the Seoho Seunghee constructed carefully in her dreams, but she’d never, for a moment, turned back to see the real him crumpling in on himself. She’d only wanted a Seoho who could protect her in her tired, weak moments, while acting as if Seoho was incapable of experiencing any of the same negative emotions as her. “To say that my heart wasn’t in it is a gross misrepresentation of how hard I was trying.” 

Seunghee’s eyes are a little wet at the corners. Seoho can’t be sure, since Xion sometimes looks the same way because of the shimmer he’ll put on his inner corners. “I’m sorry,” she says, realization heavy on her tongue. “I…” 

“It doesn't matter,” Seoho says. He hates being apologized to, would rather watch people stay the same and never reflect, because he hates the way resentment slowly melts and fades out of him when he realizes that it’s finally sinking in for Seunghee, that Seoho hadn’t ever been purposely malicious towards her no matter how icy he’d come across. That he has never been an antagonist in her life story, just someone she had to encounter and love and learn hard lessons through once they fell out of love. “I’ve accommodated you up until this point, Seunghee. I’d appreciate it if you refrained from overstepping boundaries you established yourself and speculating on my personal life when you’ve long been out of it.” 

“I’m sorry,” she repeats, and he doesn’t reply, doesn’t tell her it’s okay because he genuinely doesn’t know if it is. 

They go their separate ways right outside the entrance of the coffee shop. Seunghee says she has to head in the opposite direction of Seoho, but if Seoho’s being honest, he thinks she’s just using an excuse to not have to spend any more time with him. He understands, since he shares the same sentiment, and he won’t look back so that she can make a detour anytime she needs to. 

When Seoho assumes Seunghee’s said her fill and is about to walk away, she opens her mouth to speak again, and he shoves his hands in his pant pockets as he looks at her, waiting. 

“You don’t… maybe you don’t see it, because you’re around him too much, but you should go and look at the pictures again,” says Seunghee. “I know I’m not in the position to be telling you this, but…” 

Seoho narrows his eyes. “Why are you, then?” 

“If he were just a friend, he wouldn’t look at you like that,” Seunghee says. 

“Don’t make assumptions about other people’s relationships,” Seoho says. His ears grow hot, and he wants to cover them up. “Aren’t you busy enough worrying about your own?”

“Apparently not,” Seunghee says with a wry smile. For a moment, a sliver of the warmth Seoho used to know, used to love flickers across her features, and then it’s gone, probably reserved in larger portions for people who aren’t Seoho. “There’s a reason I thought he was your boyfriend, Seoho. Whatever he is to you, make sure to keep him, because there are very few people in the world who get someone looking at them like that.” 

Seoho realizes he’s standing on an uneven slab of pavement, and takes a step to the right to avoid it. “It’s complicated.” 

“It always is, with you,” Seunghee says. That makes Seoho roll his eyes, and she adds, “Even if I did make it worse.”

Youngjo is quiet, owlish in his stare when Seoho comes back to the office. “Is everything okay?” 

“I’m trying to figure that out,” Seoho says, and Youngjo smiles at him sweetly, telling him that _trying_ is a good start. There’s so much to sort through, in Seoho’s heart, and he’s not sure that he’ll ever get to the bottom of it. 

✧ ✧ ✧ 

For Seoho, It’s easy to act like nothing affects him and easy to believe he’s gotten better at processing emotions when it’s simply that he hasn’t been put to the test in years. Seoho has become an expert at steering clear of situations where he’s required to engage, and Seunghee surprising him at his office to have a conversation he didn’t seek out, to ask him to consider turning his life upside down again for her preconceived notions of _normal,_ had thrown him off balance in more ways than one. In Seoho’s crueler moments he sees her as self-centered and self-righteous, but in his quieter ones, he just sees a woman who expected too much from a man who hadn’t had anything to offer her except affection she saw as dutiful and invalid. 

Just considering the mere idea of Hyejoo going to live with Seunghee is enough to have bile rising up to the back of Seoho’s throat, but it doesn’t mean he dismisses the idea, either. After all, it’s not about what he wants, but what’s best for Hyejoo, and he’s not sure that growing up with a single parent who’s always running around with so little leisure time can match up against being adopted by a mother and a father and an older brother. A family that can offer three times the amount of love Seoho gives Hyejoo on his better days.

Lack of control frightens Seoho in so many ways. 

It’s what so many of his insecurities stem from and what acts as a precursor to every self-destructive, neglectful habit of his, like his tendency to overwork and still feel unhappy at the results, deflect attention away from himself in conversations that lean too personal, or pretend he feels nothing at all, letting the petals of other people’s devotion wither under the sun because he’s too afraid to extend his own petals and watch them get crushed. 

Only pretending doesn’t go very far in front of people who know you well enough to see the warning signs that you’re ignoring. Seunghee has zero context for who Geonhak and Seoho are to each other, but one look at a photo of them together and she’d been convinced that they were more than just friends. It makes Seoho want to build his walls even higher so that no one can climb up and over them, invading parts of him that he’d never wanted any eyes on except for his own, but the reality is that Seoho doesn’t actually want to be alone. He never has. 

When Geonhak had kissed him that night, focused and intent and eager, Seoho had wondered how it was possible to ever feel cold, to ever prefer being alone when a man like that existed in the world, burning so bright at every single point of connection between their bodies that the geography of their skin must have looked like a collective power grid from space. 

It’s very possible, Seoho finds. For when Geonhak isn’t touching him, isn’t near, Seoho feels a little like he’s swimming through ocean waves hellbent on drowning him and washing him astray, sky storming down on him with rain that pelts his cheeks and forehead with so much ferocity he thinks it’d be easier to stop fighting and simply, slowly sink. Being dropped from heaven to hell simply because one person doesn’t have their gaze fixed on you all the time is one of the worst ways to be dependent, and...

That’s why it’d been simpler for Seoho to not care about keeping anyone who wasn’t worth keeping, when that had meant only Hyejoo mattered, except now he’s in danger of losing her, too. 

Seoho has no more battles to win because he doesn’t even have the strength to pick them, he feels so defeated, and every night, he curls up under the blankets and wonders how much longer he’ll rely on the memory of Geonhak’s voice and contagious laughter to help him fall asleep. 

✧ ✧ ✧ 

Hyejoo is in her room, working on the finishing touches of a _secret_ that Seoho knows is some sort of surprise drawing or painting for Geonhak. She’d spared him a sneak peek earlier in the week before he could figure out what it was, although he thinks she’s started a couple new versions since then based on the amount of sighing and papers being thrown around he’d heard whenever he passed by her room. 

Instead of sitting like he normally does, Geonhak has his knees tucked up to his chest and his feet resting on the chair cushion in one of the dining chairs adjacent to the one Seoho’s sitting in. He’s dressed more casually than usual because he’d gone home after work to change into something comfortable before coming over, in a black, thin denim button up made of a light weave material and sweatpants that taper at the ankle, with socks that Hyejoo had gifted him at some point. The socks are black and have little embroidered baby chicks above the toes, although the color has faded with how many times they’ve been through the wash due to Geonhak wearing them so often. 

In front of him on the table is an empty blue mug, which Seoho had bought because it had reminded him of Geonhak even if he’d never told Geonhak. Earlier, it had been filled to the brim with hot chocolate and not a drop of coffee, while Seoho had made himself a large cup of coffee despite Hyejoo’s noises of disapproval he’d let fade into the background.

Geonhak had watched him with apprehension, waiting for the routine teasing comment about only drinking sweet things, but Seoho hadn’t said anything as he’d handed the drink over, just watched Geonhak’s eyes light up when he took that first sip. Seoho wants to give Geonhak as much kindness as he can, while he still has the chance. 

Seoho mimics the way Geonhak is sitting, although he assumes an even more leisurely pose by resting his chin on top of his arms and watching the man in front of him. Geonhak is so calming to the eyes without even trying, although that might have to do more with how Seoho feels about him, and Seoho can’t help but think back to his conversation with Seunghee. 

The entire time, as he’d tried to flatten his anger and anxiety before it climbed up and out of his control, he had realized that all he could see whenever he looked at Seunghee, was how different they were, in the way they dressed and talked and lived on a daily basis, and how futile it must have been for them to reconcile those differences when it was healthier for them to let their lives diverge in the end. 

And looking at Geonhak now, Seoho figures it was inevitable for him to fall that fast and that deep. Seunghee is the sort of flower that Seoho has never been able to pick without bleeding, pricked by unforgiving thorns as soon as he attempts to touch her, but Geonhak reminds Seoho of the fuzzy herb leaves his mother had made him hold between his fingers when he was young, leaves warm to the touch because of lazy afternoon heat, and the distinctive, soothing smell of rosemary still lingers in his memory to this day. Or maybe, because Seoho associates him with the ocean, Geonhak is more like kelp, intimidating at first because of its texture and darkness and pervasiveness until you realize it’s completely harmless, a friend that’s always there with its arms open no matter which way you turn. 

Geonhak looks like he belongs right here, in Seoho’s dimly lit dining room, in Seoho’s one-story house that used to feel like a shell and now feels like a real home. More than anything else, Geonhak belongs in Seoho’s _life_ , and this sort of restrained, convoluted intimacy where every distance feels simultaneously too close and not close enough makes the longing hurt all that much more, because Seoho knows that ultimately Geonhak can never stay. 

Seoho doesn’t notice how deeply his own thoughts have consumed him until Geonhak calls his name, only managing to catch Seoho’s attention on the fourth or fifth try when Seoho’s mind finally lets go of him and spits him out. 

“What are you thinking about?” Geonhak asks. His eyes flicker towards Seoho’s phone, screen face down for once with the longer side of it parallel to the edge of the table. “...Work?” 

Seoho lets out a shuddering sigh. These days, he wishes the only thing on his mind was work, but there’d been a time when that wasn’t the case, and he supposes the grass is always greener no matter which side of the fence he’s on. “Do you really want to know?” he asks. 

He finds it hard to believe that Geonhak might be unaware of how loaded of a question that is for Seoho to answer, but maybe Geonhak doesn’t mean anything by it. It’s highly possible he’s more preoccupied by whatever’s going on in his own life, because Seoho doesn’t know why Geonhak sighs at nothing, sometimes, or who that stranger in the tattoo shop had been, whether he’s still in contact with Geonhak even now.

“Yeah,” Geonhak says. “I do.” 

“I was thinking about how easy it is to be with you,” Seoho says. _And how hard it is to let go even though I’m trying my best to,_ he thinks to himself, and holds back the urge to pull at the loose thread hanging from Geonhak’s sleeve or cut it off neatly with scissors. His impulsive streak, always at battle with his more sensible side. “That if we’re sitting next to each other, it’s sometimes hard to tell where your clothes end and where mine start. How that matches the way we spend time together, too, because we don’t really have to do anything specific, and I can talk about anything and you already get it before my sentence is half out.” 

“Just because we both like wearing black?” Geonhak asks dryly, but he’s biting on his lip, staring at Seoho, and Seoho considers how much he and Geonhak like to pick apart each other’s words but neither of them ever feel silly or invalidated because of it. It’s not like how Seoho is with Seunghee, always bracing himself for not yet spoken words that will most definitely feel like a cheese grater against his skin no matter how hard she tries to be on her best behavior. 

Geonhak, with the aura of someone who’ll seemingly chew you up and spit you out as soon as he’s done with you, is pure and soft at heart, initial darkness making way for persistent warmth that just wraps its arms around Seoho and whispers reassurances until Seoho learns to forgive himself some days for not being enough. 

And Seoho, who never sinks his teeth into anything unless he knows with certainty he’ll end up with blood on his body that doesn’t belong to him, softens the sharpness of his bite just for Geonhak because Geonhak sees all of him, from the childishness to the frustration to the sadness, and doesn’t mind any of it. 

“Yeah,” Seoho says. He considers extending his leg to kick Geonhak, or something, and it’s like Geonhak can tell what Seoho’s thinking because he immediately laughs and shrinks further into his chair. Seoho’s laziness wins over his desire for vengeance, and he’s not actually that annoyed. “We’re both just voids making one giant one.” 

“What about the idea that opposites attract?” 

“We’re not magnets,” Seoho says, making Geonhak laugh. “And human connection isn’t that straightforward.” That much he’s learned the hard way, to his dismay, even if he’s always known his relationship with Geonhak would never be straightforward from the moment Seoho laid his eyes on him. 

When he looks at Geonhak, he’s not bothered by their differences. Rather than perspectives and inherent traits that refuse to align and grate against each other, those differences feel more like puzzle pieces fitting into place to form a bigger, prettier picture than Seoho had ever imagined possible. Geonhak is bright in all the ways Seoho isn’t, sunlight shining through the metal bars of Seoho’s jaded thoughts on hard, dark days, and Seoho offers quiet acceptance in the moments Geonhak expresses the subtlest bit of frustration over being misunderstood when he’s always had the best intentions. 

“We balance each other out, I guess,” Seoho decides, and Geonhak licks his lips, considering the words. “The right kind of opposites.” 

“Right kind of opposites, huh?” Geonhak sounds a little lost, and Seoho doesn’t know why. “That’s one way to put it.” 

“Yeah,” Seoho says. He hears Hyejoo moving around in her room which probably means she’s going to come out soon, and he leans over to grab his mug off of the table, taking one last, absentminded sip of his coffee. 

✧ ✧ ✧ 

Seoho remains under the impression that Geonhak is the one compartmentalizing for the two of them, making sure that their fingers don’t brush even if it’s on accident, making sure that he never gets too close and leaves temptation dangling in front of Seoho’s face. It hurts Seoho in the moments that he still feels greedy for Geonhak’s undivided attention, but at the same time he’s relieved, because there’s a distance solidifying between them that makes it possible for him to still have Geonhak even if another piece of him withers away every single time he looks at Geonhak and Geonhak isn’t looking back. 

Seoho doesn’t like it. Hates it, even, but he can accept cloudy days if the sun still peeks through every now and then, and he’s well acquainted with days that feel like a burden rather than a gift, where responsibility and disappointment hang on either side of him and wear him down to the bone. Compared to those empty, lonely hours of walking in a tunnel that seems to have no start and no end, Seoho thinks it’s more than enough that he gets to cherish what little Geonhak is willing to give. 

So the last thing he expects, when he follows Geonhak out onto the porch and prepares to wish Geonhak a safe drive home, is for Geonhak to step close enough to him that their noses almost touch, letting Seoho back up only a little before he’s sliding his palm along Seoho’s jaw and kissing Seoho hard enough to bowl him over if he wasn’t holding onto Seoho so tightly. 

Seoho thinks it’s a sick joke, or something, because isn’t his heartbreak bad enough? but Geonhak doesn’t let up even when Seoho pushes at him lightly, just takes Seoho’s small, flustered gasp as an opportunity to tilt his head so that he can kiss Seoho deeper, teeth dragging against Seoho’s bottom lip like a promise meant to be kept secret before he’s pulling away and out of Seoho’s personal bubble. He doesn’t really leave that bubble, though, just gives Seoho a chance to breathe and slides his hand down slowly from Seoho’s jaw to his neck, to his shoulder, to his side where he then grabs a fistful of Seoho’s fabric like Seoho’s an anchor for him. 

Coincidentally, Seoho can feel his pulse in the exact spot where Geonhak’s knuckles are pressed flat against his shirt, and he wonders if that means Geonhak can sense how fast his heart is racing. “What are you…” 

“I’m sorry,” Geonhak says. Seoho can’t figure out if Geonhak means it, when he still hasn’t uncurled his fingers from the material of Seoho’s shirt, when he’s spent all this time pushing Seoho away just to pull Seoho back in and wreck his emotions all over again. “I just… I wanted. There’s only _want_ , whenever I’m looking at you.” 

“So why…” Seoho is so tired, and confused. He wishes love didn’t feel like a game he never learned the rules to, wishes that whatever veil’s still hanging in front of his eyes would just lift. Hyejoo is waiting for him, inside, so he can’t talk to Geonhak for too long without her getting suspicious. He’s not sure if she’d seen them kiss, because they’re in an ambiguous spot of the porch that leaves the possibility equally likely as it is unlikely. “I don’t understand.” 

“You don’t have to,” Geonhak says. His eyes are dark, lips spit slick enough that his mouth alone looks like a sin Seoho wants to commit over and over again, although Seoho doesn’t think he looks too far off himself. “Can I tell you a secret?” 

“A secret?” It takes Seoho by surprise, and he can’t help the wry laugh that escapes him. _Secret_ is a word better suited for Seoho, with old abandoned dreams and an ex-wife he likes to pretend doesn’t exist even though he stays in contact with her much too often out of necessity to ever succeed at forgetting her. “Sure.” 

“I told you before that I sometimes missed you, depending on the day,” Geonhak says. The desire in Seoho settles down into a low simmer as he concentrates on listening to what Geonhak is trying to tell him. “Remember?”

“Yes,” Seoho says. “And I joked that you should miss me everyday.”

“The truth is that I miss you every single second I’m awake,” Geonhak says, and Seoho lets out a shuddering sigh of disbelief. “And probably in my sleep, too, because I keep waking up in the middle of the night thinking about how you’re not with me, and how lucky I am to have had you at all.” He laughs, embarrassed, unsure. “Maybe that wasn’t a secret you wanted to hear.” 

“I’d be okay with all of your secrets, Geonhak,” Seoho says. He no longer needs to hold on for balance, but he grabs onto Geonhak’s arms regardless to give himself a pillar of support. 

“ _I_ wouldn’t,” Geonhak says. He’s shutting a door in Seoho’s face again, establishing a boundary where Seoho thought was an area cleared for his access. “Because I can keep my secrets, Seoho, but I can’t keep you.” 

And Seoho wants, desperately, to be able to make Geonhak stay, to pull him back inside where he’ll then tell Geonhak that he’s always wanted to be first place in Geonhak’s heart even if it was unrealistic and just another one of his silly dreams. That he’s never wanted to keep anyone as much as he wants to keep Geonhak, whose presence wades and sloshes through every part of Seoho like ocean waves that keep returning no matter how many times he’s tried to clear them out. 

Instead, he says nothing, simply folds his arms across each other to hug himself when Geonhak pulls away from him, subjecting Seoho to the mercy of the chill evening breeze as he gets into his car and leaves, once again. 

✧ ✧ ✧ 

When Seoho is preparing to go to sleep nearly two hours later, he gets a message from Geonhak. 

_I’ll be okay the next time we meet. Sorry for burdening you._

Seoho wants… wants to see Geonhak’s face, but he thinks he’s being greedy, even if the only face he gets to see from Geonhak nowadays is a polite, watered down version of the man Seoho fell in love with. 

_Don’t say sorry. You’re not a burden._ Seoho considers his next words for a moment, before typing them and hitting send. _And you meant it._

Geonhak’s next message stings. Seoho knows it’s for both of their sakes, but it stings. 

_I won’t mean it tomorrow, Seoho. I promise._

Geonhak keeps all of his promises, but this is one Seoho wishes he would break. 

✧ ✧ ✧ 

It’s an understatement to say that Seoho’s nervous when he gets a text from Xion, even more so when he reads it and all Xion has sent is: 

_Can we meet?_

Maybe Xion is taking Seoho up on that free lunch offer, despite the fact that Geonhak hasn’t contacted Seoho in nearly four days. Xion simply wanting someone to buy him food would be a better case scenario than everything else Seoho’s imagining in his mind right now, but he doesn’t let himself dwell on it. He does, however, feel a complicated sense of ease when Xion suggests a tea shop in a completely different part of the city to where _Sapphire Sun_ is located. 

“What did you want to talk about?” 

Xion sips at his drink through a lime green straw, which he’d carefully picked after staring at the can of multicolored straws to weigh his options. There’s definitely not much natural flavoring left in the shake he’d ordered considering how much sugar Seoho can smell coming from it across the table, and how much blended Oreo must be in it to have the whole thing be that signature pale gray with speckles of cookie crumbs. 

“You’re a good person, Seoho,” Xion says, and Seoho crosses one leg over the other. He wants to examine his nails or something, to distract himself, but it’d be rude of him to do that when Xion’s talking, even if the reason he’s anxious is because he’s waiting for whatever Xion has deemed important enough to drag him out to a tea shop to discuss. “I could tell right away that first day, when you came into the shop for your piercings, but…” 

“But...?” Seoho asks. 

“Don’t mess with Geonhak if you’re not serious about him,” Xion says, quietly, and Seoho blinks at him in bewilderment, taken aback by how straightforward Xion is when he’s always been so enigmatic in his intentions otherwise. 

Geonhak had mentioned that Xion had needed protecting when they were younger, once. Seoho had assumed it’d been a one way street, considering Geonhak never seems to fold or flinch at anything the way Seoho does with people getting too close, but seeing the concern in Xion’s face right now, Seoho realizes that fierce, protective nature is mutual between them, and that Xion has likely always been watching out for Geonhak, too. 

“I’ve never messed around when it comes to Geonhak,” Seoho says. Xion frowns. He hasn’t done any eye makeup today, but Seoho can tell concealer has been applied to a few spots on his face and underneath his eyes. 

“He’s miserable whenever he comes back from seeing you,” Xion says. “You don’t think that’s odd?”

Seoho stares down at his hands in his lap. 

“I told him not to get attached to you, but he wouldn’t listen,” Xion says. “He thinks he’s incapable of getting hurt as long as he pretends nothing happened in the past, but he’ll keep going until he breaks.” 

“Why did you tell him not to get attached to me?” 

Seoho wonders if Xion still thinks he’s icy, after all this time, or whether Xion had never bothered getting to know him too well because he never approved of Seoho in the first place. Maybe Geonhak had never interfered at all, and Seoho had stepped out of line in believing he and Xion could genuinely like each other. 

“Because you’re a mistake he’s going to make again,” says Xion, and that has Seoho glancing at him sharply. _Mistake,_ coming out of Xion’s mouth cuts a lot deeper than Seoho expects it to, but that’s probably because he’d truly considered Xion a friend when he rarely thinks that way about anyone else. “I think you’re significantly less awful, but—”

“What do you mean, again?”

“Geonhak has a tendency to...” Xion says, trailing off. Then he rubs at his temples with long, slim fingers before taking a dismissive sip of his sugary shake. “You’re not the first one to take interest in him.”

Jealousy feels like something acidic crawling back up Seoho’s throat, and he recalls the stranger who’d grabbed onto Geonhak’s arm like his life depended on it. Xion, who’s had the privilege of growing up with Geonhak and understanding him in all sorts of ways Seoho can’t compete with. The clients who stare at Geonhak like he’s the sun without realizing he’s Seoho’s ocean, first. 

He can tell he’s losing control over his facial expression, because Xion is watching him, eyes thoughtful. “I know that.” 

“Has he told you about why he came back here, even though he would have had a much better career back in Seoul?”

“No,” Seoho says. “I wanted to know more about his time there but I didn’t push, because I was afraid…”

“His boyfriend at the time broke his heart,” Xion says. “Planned on getting married to a nice, normal girl because he was afraid of coming out to his parents after years of acting like he was in it for the long run with Geonhak.”

“That’s…” Seoho hadn’t expected that at all. 

“I know you think he plays well with Hyejoo, or whatever,” Xion says. He balls up his napkin in his fist. “Even so, you shouldn’t keep him hanging if that’s the only reason you’re still tolerating his presence. He’s never going to tell you how much it hurts him, but I can because I’m protective.”

_Because I can keep my secrets, Seoho, but I can’t keep you._

“I’m always serious even if I don’t show it,” Seoho says. He considers his words for a moment before he decides that it doesn't matter if he’s truthful with Xion, since he probably won’t get the chance to admit anything so terrifying to Geonhak’s face. “Geonhak’s the one who doesn’t want to keep me.” 

Xion does a double take at him before his mouth twists into something irritated. “Because you’re getting back together with your ex-wife after you led him on, that’s why.” 

Seoho’s hands go cold. He’d been so focused on Seunghee the entire time they were talking that he’d never felt anyone else’s eyes on them, but it doesn’t mean no one was watching. It’s one of the scariest things about being with other people in public, Seoho has come to realize, because sometimes context is left out entirely and never recovered. 

“I’m not.” 

“Not what?” Xion asks, impatiently. 

“Not getting back together with my ex-wife,” Seoho says, and Xion’s eyes widen at the admission of information. _Strangers_ , he thinks, even if Xion nor Geonhak can hear him. “She asked to meet me because she wanted…” he pauses, because Seunghee wanting to take care of Hyejoo still isn’t something he wants to share when he’s not ready for it. “She’s getting remarried, to someone else.” 

“You guys looked like you were on a date,” Xion says, sounding and looking dumbfounded. “Is she really?” 

“Yes, she is. A lot of things look like things that they’re not, Xion,” Seoho says, with a wry grin. To outsiders, he supposes he and Seunghee still appear like a decent match for each other, but the two of them know better thanks to the wisdom of time and growing up and older. 

To strangers passing by, he and Geonhak might seem somewhat attracted to each other, when it’s so much more than that. Whether Seoho likes it or not, they’re inevitably drawn to each other through their coolness and warmth, through their differences and similarities, one high tide of longing emerging in response to the other’s gravitational pull. 

“Plus, you look non-confrontational and harmless, and yet…?” Seoho adds. 

“I used to be, when I was younger,” Xion says, shrinking back into the soft hood of his jacket as he retracts his figurative claws, no longer on offense mode. “Now I’m just harmless.” 

“Harmless is the last word I would use to describe you,” Seoho says, and Xion narrows his eyes at him in a way that makes Seoho laugh for real. 

“Sorry. You were always skittish, especially on that day I asked you to come into the shop, and it constantly felt like you weren’t looking for anything serious with him,” Xion says, and Seoho just offers him a small smile. Xion looks like he wants to be able to extract more information from that smile, and he makes a face when he ultimately can’t. “So do you…” he sighs. “I guess it’s not any of my business.” 

Seoho chuckles, then. “Did you think about that before you called me out to try and murder me in a tea shop?” 

“I would have murdered you in a dark alley,” Xion says, fluttering his eyelashes. “The tea shop meeting was just to feel things out.” 

“Very thoughtful of you,” Seoho says. “Don’t write people off before they have a chance to show you their true colors. Like how I waited this conversation out only to realize that you’re great at jumping to conclusions and not much else—” 

“Oh, shut up,” Xion says, ruffling his own hair in frustration. “You and Geonhak are both so stubborn. It hurts me.” 

“The right kind of opposites, though,” Seoho says quietly, and Xion raises an eyebrow at him. 

“Do I need to tell you to be careful with him?” Xion says, “Or do you have it covered?” 

“I’ll think about it,” Seoho says, grinning wide enough that Xion knows it’s a joke, but Xion scowls at him regardless. 

“You have a horrible personality. I worry for Geonhak,” Xion says, sighing. He doesn’t mean it though, because he smiles at Seoho as he takes a longer sip of his Oreo shake, and in turn, Seoho takes a sip of his coffee. 

✧ ✧ ✧ 

Seoho has navigated most of his life with an air of skepticism, putting faith forward only in reliable truths and new discoveries when something was set in stone. It’s why he takes all of his sister’s stories about trying new fad athlete diets with a grain of salt and simply waits a week, because that’s usually when she texts him that the current meal plan is definitely not going to be sustainable in the long run even if the theoretical science behind it makes it seem highly plausible. It’s also why he doesn’t believe anything too quickly, why he’s learned to rely more on himself rather than the idea that destiny will bring you the things you’re meant to have. 

Fate is funny, he thinks, because life always works out in Hyejoo’s favor in small, cute ways, while life for Seoho is a series of attempts to avoid disaster by personal management and the tiniest push of pitying luck from higher powers. He doesn’t have the time to worry about collecting as much good fortune as possible by the law of attraction and can only be pleasantly surprised when he’s not presented with the worst case scenario. 

So when fate chooses to set off a bunch of landmines near Seoho, through Hyojin and Xion and now _Hyejoo_ , conspiratorially crawling towards Seoho on the couch with a determined look in her eyes, Seoho gets an inkling that he’s been stuck inside his head for too long, and that he might have to gather the courage to exit his dark, isolated cave in order to seek out warmer destinations. 

Hyejoo leans her head against his shoulder. “Daddy.” 

“What’s…” he groans when she subsequently headbutts him, unprovoked. He’s being attacked in so many ways today, but he gently pushes back her baby hairs anyway, even if there’s no point because her hair is extra stubborn when it’s freshly washed. “Why’d you headbutt me?” 

“You’re stupid,” Hyejoo says firmly. 

“I don’t think you should say that to someone who just heated up blueberry muffins for you,” Seoho says, and she squirms in annoyance before mumbling out a reluctant _thank you,_ and coincidentally, the convection oven in the kitchen makes its usual beeping noise in notification that it’s reached the temperature Seoho had chosen when turning it on, as if it agrees with him. 

“Geonhak substituted for us yesterday,” Hyejoo says. 

“What?” Seoho asks, squinting. He’d clearly seen Ms. Greene at the door when he went to pick up Hyejoo yesterday afternoon. “Why didn’t I see him?” 

“He was only there the first half of the day, because Ms. Greene had a doctor's appointment in the morning,” Hyejoo explains. Her two front teeth worry at the thickest part of her lower lip. “He told me something, but I’m not sure whether I should tell you, or whether I’m allowed to.” 

“Is it a secret?” Seoho asks, and Hyejoo nods, pulling one of her pigtails over her shoulder and smoothing her fingers over the tail ends. Her hair is getting so long that it’s turning lighter brown and probably splitting at the ends, so Seoho will have to arrange to give her a haircut or a trim whenever he can make the time for it. “Then you shouldn’t tell me. If you promised him you’d keep it between you two.” 

“But you’re…” 

“I’m what?” 

“You haven’t been smiling,” Hyejoo says. “You’re sad.” 

“I’m not,” Seoho says. He smiles at her, to compensate, but he knows it’s only going to come out tired. His mind is still on overdrive from the new knowledge from Xion he’s not sure what to do with, and it’s hard to take a step forward when he’s spent his whole life taking steps backwards. “How can I be anything but happy when I have you in my life?”

“It’s not that, it’s like...here, look,” Hyejoo says, huffing in frustration like she thinks Seoho is being purposely obstinate. She makes two different smiling faces to demonstrate, one that’s a wider, mischievous smile and then a more subdued one that doesn’t show teeth. Both expressions are meant to be Seoho, and Seoho recognizes his own features in her face so distinctly that it makes him laugh. 

“Don’t make fun of the way I smile,” he says good-naturedly. “I think you’d make a good comedian, just like your dad.” 

“You’re not funny, though!” Hyejoo argues, and wiggling his fingers as a warning, Seoho tickles her on her sides until her face goes red from laughing and struggling, and she finally changes her mind and agrees. 

“The first smile is the one you have on your face whenever you’re with Geonhak,” Hyejoo says. She’s sitting on the end of the couch now, vigilant for any other surprise tickle attacks Seoho might have planned for her as she takes deep breaths. “And I’m scared that if I don’t tell you the secret, he won’t come around anymore, and you’ll never smile like that again.” 

“So what are you going to do?” Seoho asks. He doesn’t know how to guide her, because he’s a little scared of what that secret is and yet still curious as to what Geonhak has chosen to confide in his daughter about. 

“I guess I’ll tell you anyway,” Hyejoo says, and Seoho closes his eyes. “Because it’s important.” 

“Okay.” 

“He said that he lost trust in people,” Hyejoo says. She picks lightly at a button in the fabric of the couch seating. “That he’s been hurt really bad before.” 

_His boyfriend broke his heart,_ Xion had said earlier, and Seoho’s heart aches at the fact that Geonhak had seen enough kindness in Hyejoo to tell her something so vulnerable, aches at the layers underneath all the smiles Geonhak has ever directed at him and never explained, promising Seoho that he was okay even on the days he wasn’t. 

Geonhak is an ocean, strong and coursing and brave, but he’s scared too, disappearing beneath the surface when he’s afraid that he can’t reach Seoho at the shore. Seoho wonders what Geonhak’s face looks like on the days he lets himself be sad, what words Geonhak is choosing to keep to himself because he’s afraid of giving too much of himself and not receiving anything in return. 

“But then he said that we were the first people to make him feel safe again,” Hyejoo says, and Seoho drops his head, reeling as the implications of Xion’s fragment offering of Geonhak’s feelings and Hyejoo’s conversation with Geonhak sink into one big, heavy realization. “That I was like a flower he wakes up to every morning just to see if I’ve grown bigger and stronger, and that you’re big and bright, like the moon at night guiding him while he’s out at sea.” 

Seoho’s chest feels like it’s going to collapse in on itself, or maybe expand and eventually explode once it becomes too big for the earth to contain. 

“I hate him,” he says with a sigh, not quite able to believe that both he and Geonhak liken their relationship to that of the moon and the ocean. Geonhak is unreal, and Seoho wants him all for himself until the end of time, with Hyejoo right in between them. 

Hyejoo shakes her head, but she asks, “Do you really?”

“No,” Seoho says, and then she’s smiling at him, because she’s known that long before he admitted it even if he didn’t want her to. “Not at all.”

✧ ✧ ✧ 

Seoho doesn’t know if Xion has revealed anything to Geonhak from their meeting the other day, but at this point, Geonhak’s going to drift farther and farther from him and Seoho doesn’t want that. Seoho doesn’t want to keep cupping sea salt water in his hands and watch it slip out from between his fingers and where his palms connect. What Seoho wants is to submerge himself in it, let the frothy waves wash over him until he’s forgetting about everything else and only remembering how it feels to be held by the human embodiment of love made just for him. 

Geonhak picks up on the second ring. He must have been close to his phone, so he’s probably not in the middle of an appointment. 

“Seoho?” An exhale. But not a sigh. Or maybe it is a sigh, and Seoho’s too blinded by his own determination to be able to sense the difference. “Why are you calling?” 

“I wanted to know if you’d be okay with me dropping by the shop?” 

“Did you want to get lunch?” Geonhak asks. He sounds hesitant. If they were talking in person, he’d probably be looking off into the distance past Seoho’s shoulder, but even then, it’s rare for Geonhak to look at anything else than the face of the person he’s talking to. He never forgets his manners even if he’s noisy and likes to argue with Seoho. “I don’t know if…” 

“No lunch,” Seoho says. “Just a bit of your time.” 

“Okay,” Geonhak agrees. “Why?” 

Seoho thinks they’ve had a lot of misunderstandings, and slowly but surely, he’s going to clear all of them, iron out lost words and unspoken thoughts until they’re on the same page and not floating somewhere in the same chapter of a book neither of them are reading. This is just the first step. Seoho’s scared that he’s diving off of a cliff with nothing waiting for him but a deep, bottomless ocean, but maybe the ocean will welcome him and that’s what he was looking for anyway. 

“You told me that you had secrets you wanted to keep.” 

Geonhak’s inhale is sharp. “I did.” 

“So did I,” Seoho says. “But I don’t want to keep them anymore.” 

“Seoho…” Geonhak says, trailing off. Maybe he understands already, but Seoho will be there shortly to confirm whatever it is Geonhak has understood if it’s correct. 

Seoho keeps his voice light as he says, “I’m going to drop by that bakery you like, the one with the really nice coffee milk tea that _I_ like. Do you want anything?” 

“Pick something for me,” Geonhak murmurs, and Seoho agrees easily, hanging up once they exchange a few more formalities and he lets Geonhak know approximately how long it’s going to take before he arrives at _Sapphire Sun_. 

It’s odd, Seoho thinks, that he’s supposed to be awkward with Geonhak and yet, just seeing Geonhak is enough to make happiness make a splash in the swirl of all the other emotions Seoho can’t really focus on anymore. They’re quiet with each other as Geonhak lets Seoho follow him up to the second floor, and Seoho notes the way Geonhak keeps his hands curled into nervous fists at his sides even after they’ve climbed the last stair. 

A low tide, because they’re not the closest they’ve ever been, and not the farthest either. A strange, calming in between. 

Upon reaching his workspace, Geonhak pulls out a stool for Seoho to sit on as Seoho sets down the bag he’s brought. 

“You didn’t get yourself anything?” Geonhak asks, when he looks inside the bag. There are multiple slices of cake individually packaged, and he knows that Seoho doesn’t eat dessert. “Why…” 

“Wasn’t in the mood,” Seoho explains. “I wanted to get something for you, though.” 

The work table is cleaner than usual, and Seoho wonders if Geonhak had specifically cleared his usual junk off for Seoho’s comfort. It’s the sort of thing Geonhak would remember to do even if he’s not particularly happy to have Seoho here, encroaching on his space, and Seoho draws circles into a part of the table where the wood dips in a dent that isn’t visible to the eye unless you’re really looking for it. 

Geonhak is wearing one of those windbreaker hoodies that makes noise no matter what you’re doing, mostly gray and black with a few accents of teal on the drawstrings and insides of his sleeves, and a pair of light wash jeans. His hair is down, and he’s wearing glasses again. 

“Do you have the patience to listen to something tedious?” Seoho asks Geonhak, who watches him with steady, careful eyes, like Seoho is a wild animal he’s not entirely sure how he managed to trap, and won’t know how to bring back if Seoho escapes, either. 

“You’re not tedious,” Geonhak says immediately. “And yes.” 

“Did Xion tell you…” 

“That he met up with you?” Geonhak finishes for Seoho, and Seoho nods. “Yeah. He can’t hide anything from me.” 

Seoho laughs. “You don’t sound bothered by it.” 

Geonhak rubs at his temples. “I had time to get over him meddling, but I don’t know exactly what he told you, either, so that’s probably why.” 

“Do you want to know?” 

“No,” Geonhak says, and Seoho laughs again. 

“He thought I was getting back together with my ex-wife,” Seoho says carefully, and Geonhak startles a bit, but the way his eyes dart away is more a sign that he’d been in the same vein of thought as Xion, rather than totally surprised by the idea. 

“Are you…” Geonhak bites his lip. He looks hopeful, and confused, and so, so cute. “Are you not?” 

“Xion didn’t tell you?”

“I told him not to tell me anything,” Geonhak explains, flaring his nostrils. “And he really listened to me, the brat.” That does sound like something Xion would do, and Seoho can even imagine how Xion’s expression might have looked as he purposely omitted information based on Geonhak’s instructions. 

“Seunghee’s getting married,” Seoho says. “To an older guy who has a son.” 

“Oh,” Geonhak says. The relief in his voice is evident even with just one syllable, and Seoho wonders if it’s always been this clear, how Geonhak feels about him. Geonhak is scanning Seoho’s face, too, to see whether he can gauge Seoho’s reaction to the news. “Do you...how do you feel about that?” 

“I don’t really care,” Seoho says, and he thinks the tension in Geonhak’s jaw melts away a little. “I wouldn’t have remarried her even if the stars had aligned, because our paths have intersected and now we’re heading in completely different directions. So it’s good that she’s found someone who can support her better than I did.” 

“It sounds like there’s something else, then.” 

“There is,” Seoho says, and Geonhak looks almost surprised to have guessed right. “She wants to…” Seoho picks at the jean rip on his knee, smoothing his index and middle fingers over the shreds that have been torn through from years of clumsy changing and now hang loose at the sides of the rip. “...She wants to bring Hyejoo to live with her.”

There’s a moment of silence. 

Then Geonhak scrunches his nose, but it’s not the friendly one Seoho’s used to seeing. “What?” 

“Yeah,” Seoho says. The laugh that comes out of him feels forced, and flat. “I was going to forget about it, but then I couldn’t stop thinking…” 

“Thinking about what? You shouldn’t have to, it shouldn’t even be…” Geonhak says. “Is she expecting an answer?” 

“I don’t know,” Seoho says. “She wants one, I guess.”

“Whatever you do, don’t…” Geonhak says. He clears his throat. “Don’t make the decision for her. For Hyejoo.” 

Seoho stares at the wall, somewhere in between a photograph of a lunar themed cat tattoo and a photograph of a wolf bust tattoo, fur descending into an intertwining of tree roots that resemble constellation formations on the edges, but his vision never focuses. “I don’t want to make any decisions.” 

He stares then, at Geonhak’s hand, and his vision focuses. Geonhak is wearing rings today. “If Hyejoo went to live with them, she would have a mom, a dad, a sibling…” A life in a suburban house in a nice neighborhood with a family as complete as the ones playing pretend on TV. “Things that I would never be able to give her by myself.” 

“Are you seriously considering it?” Geonhak asks, and Seoho doesn’t look at him. “Do you really think she’d be happy leaving the life that you’ve made for her behind to go and live with someone who left her so easily?” 

“I don’t know,” Seoho says. “She could learn. I’m not…” He sighs. So many years of personal, stoic rebellion, only to fall victim to meaningless words that refuse to let go of him despite the fact that they were spoken by someone he no longer cares about or prioritizes. “I’m not put together the way Seunghee is, now. She...” 

There’s a possibility that she’s changed. She’d looked so different, more comfortable with who she’s become, while Seoho is still the same old Seoho, afraid of judgment and afraid of love and afraid of being wrong. 

“And what were you judging from?” Geonhak asks. His voice goes rough, harsh, when his emotions flare up and he doesn’t have any extra energy to soften the edges. Not the man Seoho had first met, seemingly flirty and sweet and dangerous, before he’d mellowed out into the more familiar Geonhak who Seoho wants so badly to pull into his arms right this moment. “People are good at bluffing but it doesn’t mean they can actually handle hardship. You know more than anything that you can’t judge a person by the way they look or act at first, so why are you…” 

“I know that,” Seoho says softly. He hesitates, before he reaches out to place his hand on top of Geonhak’s for a few seconds, pulling away after he can feel Geonhak’s fist loosen and his grip fades into something a little less aggressive, a little less angry. “But it doesn’t make me any less insecure, even if it makes no sense for me to feel that way.” 

“She didn’t want to take care of Hyejoo with you by her side,” Geonhak says. He exhales through his mouth, frustrated. “What makes you think she could take care of Hyejoo now, who you know best, who loves _you_ the most, with some stranger and that stranger’s son?” 

“You’re more upset than I expected you to be,” Seoho says.

“Because parents like her come by the dozen, the type who only care about their children when they’re in the mood or have the headspace to care,” Geonhak says. His voice goes flat, cracks a little, and it almost hurts Seoho to listen to it. “...And parents like you, _people_ like you, come one in a million.” 

In the worst timing possible, Seoho’s eyes grow hot, and he wants to hide from the steadfastness of Geonhak’s gaze on him. Geonhak has a way with words when he’s least expecting it, and it always bowls Seoho over the same way Geonhak’s kisses do. 

“Geonhak,” he says, inhaling deep, wondering whether the depth of his feelings is as obvious to Geonhak as it is to himself. 

“You’re always worried that you’re not doing enough,” Geonhak says. “That you’re selfish, or failing in some way by not being superhuman, but you never look around you and realize that people like you are so hard to come by.” 

“I’m not that special,” Seoho says. “I’m just…” 

“You _are,_ ” Geonhak says. “I know what selfishness looks like. How people who really worry about being normal act like.” He folds his arms across his chest, as if he’s trying his best to protect himself from memories he doesn’t want to remember. “They’ll discard you when they’re scared and then come back when they see what you can do for them.”

He sounds just like how he did when he called Seoho that night, on the weekend that Hyojin had been in town and Geonhak had gone to the convention and returned inexplicably sad. 

“Is that why you were sad?” Seoho asks carefully, and Geonhak glances at him, startled. Seoho had been scared to ask, before, but he’s gradually learned bits and pieces about how Geonhak feels towards him even if none of it is concrete yet, and he suddenly remembers that Geonhak had looked… distressed, the day that Seoho had seen him talking to that stranger in the shop. “Does it have to do with the guy who came to visit you here?” 

“The guy who…” Geonhak’s brow furrows before he realizes. “Did you…was that the day you didn’t come in even though Xion met you outside?” 

“Yeah,” Seoho says. 

“So you saw,” Geonhak says. He sounds upset, but it’s not directed at Seoho. 

Seoho bites his lip. “Not much. Just that he seemed to be close to you, and...” 

“He’s my ex, back when I was in Korea,” Geonhak says, and Seoho’s throat feels so dry. _His boyfriend broke his heart_ , he remembers again in Xion’s voice, and he watches Geonhak try to find the proper words. “He was at the convention too.” 

“You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to,” Seoho says. “I’m sorry I wasn’t at the convention with you. You must have felt uncomfortable.” 

“It’s okay,” Geonhak says. He smiles at Seoho. “One day in not ideal conditions won’t destroy me.” 

“No, they won’t,” Seoho says, and then he grins back at Geonhak, leaning over to pat Geonhak on the thigh comfortingly. “Do you want me to beat him up for you?” 

“Why would I have you do that when I can do it myself, probably better?” Geonhak asks. 

“Because you’re too gentle,” Seoho says. “You transport bugs out of the house with tissue paper and get distracted by any cute kid walking your way.” 

Geonhak scrunches his nose at that, but he doesn’t deny it. “I don’t like hurting people anyway. I just want them to leave me alone.” He pauses, and steals a look at Seoho. “You’re okay, though.” 

“Aw, Geonhak,” Seoho says, swallowing the urge to kiss Geonhak, and Geonhak bristles at the cooing tone of voice Seoho has adopted to make fun of him, not realizing Seoho’s doing it to mask something else. “You don’t want to be left alone if it’s me?” 

“Shut up,” Geonhak says. He pushes his glasses up with the middle knuckle of his index finger. “Anyways.” 

“Yes?” 

“Don’t give people up when they want to be kept by you,” Geonhak says. The back of Seoho’s eyes start to burn, again. “Not Hyejoo, not…” 

_Me,_ Seoho can hear even if Geonhak doesn’t say it, even if Geonhak isn’t pushing for an uncomfortable conversation yet, and when Seoho closes his eyes, he can feel the warning signs of a high tide coming. 

✧ ✧ ✧ 

“Are you drawing?” Hyejoo asks, when she comes out of her room and sees Seoho at the dining table, flipping through his most recent sketchbook which is only filled halfway, the last serious sketch he ever worked on being from three or four years ago. He gets to a clean, fresh page that hasn’t been drawn on before and flattens the spread from the center seam out. “Why?” 

“It’s a secret,” Seoho says, and Hyejoo whines at him while he spins his ballpoint pen between his fingers, unbothered. “I don’t bug you when you tell me I can’t look at what you’re drawing~” 

“Dads aren’t supposed to have secrets,” Hyejoo says. “Only kids.” 

“You don’t think that’s unfair?” Seoho asks, and Hyejoo shakes her head so fast that he thinks she’ll get dizzy, before he remembers that’s the sort of thing she won’t have to deal with until she’s older. “I can’t trust you anyways. Geonhak told you his secret and then you told it to me. A traitor.” 

Hyejoo splutters indignantly. “Because it was important for you to know!” 

“What if you think my secret is important to share with other people too?” Seoho says. “I’m going to be betrayed as soon as you see anyone you think is trustworthy.” 

“No one’s trustworthy,” Hyejoo says, crossing her arms in front of her. She blows air upwards, and Seoho can’t see it but there’s probably a strand of hair hanging in her face that’s bothering her. “Only Geonhak.” 

That makes Seoho’s insides twist, because Hyejoo has a way of saying such heartfelt things without meaning to, and he completely agrees. 

“Well, Geonhak can’t know about this,” Seoho says, and predictably, Hyejoo’s eyebrows raise with interest. She surges forward to peek, and he laughs when she’s disappointed to find nothing on the two empty pages he has spread out. “There’s nothing on the page, you don’t even know what’s going on.” 

Her lower lip sticks out. He’s immune to it by now, but he likes to pretend it still affects him so that Hyejoo continues to enjoy playing cute. “Can’t I have a hint?” 

“Is your homework done?” 

“...No,” Hyejoo says. “I still have math and writing to do.” 

“I’ll give you a hint as soon as you’ve completed those subjects,” Seoho says, and before he’s even finished talking Hyejoo has already dashed back to her room to complete the rest of her homework as quickly as possible. 

Now alone, Seoho stares at the empty pages in front of him. He’s both intimidated and excited, because he knows exactly what he wants to end up with and clarity is half the struggle, but he’s not sure whether he’s capable of achieving it, and whether he’ll like the end result if he does end up bringing the murky vision in his head to life the way he wants to. 

It’s uncertain, like everything else sloshing inside of him as he prepares to choose courage for the first time, but Seoho thinks he’d like to try. 

✧ ✧ ✧ 

It’s raining, when Seoho finally finishes and he looks up with blurry vision at the analog clock hanging on the wall. 

A quarter to eight in the evening. While Seoho has been engrossed in inking, the periwinkle blue of the day has transformed into the indigo black of night, and he stands up to pull all the blinds shut on the windows. 

He rubs at his eyes, then at his temples, before looking back down at the inked version of his tattoo design. It’d taken a few days for him to solidify a design with details he was happy with, sketching and reiterating in the limited slots of free time he got while waiting for Hyejoo to be released from school and long after Hyejoo was asleep, pushing aside work whenever possible for the first time because this mattered more than anything else.

Hyejoo is with Seunghee, on an overnight weekend visit that happens every month or so. Seoho had been wary of letting Hyejoo spend any time with Seunghee after their conversation regarding Seunghee remarrying and wanting to take Hyejoo in, but he’d like to think that Seunghee has more tact than that even if she’s always been demanding in all the ways Seoho isn’t. 

His silence, he hopes, is a clear enough sign that his stance from their in person meeting hasn’t changed. Seoho had wavered in the moments he was alone, but with enough deliberation and a strong willed Geonhak to pull him back when his thoughts went astray into a dark place, he’s settled into a decision he won’t sway from. 

He hadn’t wanted to take anything away from Hyejoo, either, because he knows how much she enjoys spending time with Seunghee, even though Hyejoo never talks much about what they’ve done every time she comes back like she’s afraid Seoho will be upset at her for enjoying herself. 

There’s a quiet, nervous energy trickling through him as he considers…

He’s thought about it, the whole time that he’s been working on this, what it’s going to mean when he finally brings it to Geonhak. What he’s going to say. Geonhak had suggested it lightly as a way for Seoho to revisit art again without putting pressure on himself, but Seoho has gone and run in the opposite direction with the idea, pouring his soul into paper with the same kind of intensity and concentration that the rain outside is showering the pavement with. 

Seoho is not one for love letters, or letters at all, probably too fed up with looking at words for work all day that when it comes to his personal life, he prefers brief messages or inconsequential photographs to share a bit of his day with the people he cares about. 

It would have been more intuitive to write something, considering Seoho is much more fluent with putting words together and rearranging them as needed, significantly weaker when it comes to communicating in visual line work even if he can manage it as long as he puts forth the effort. 

When he’d pulled out a clean sheet of paper to map out some semblance of what he felt towards Geonhak in the form of words, though, he had ended up with nothing no matter how many times he put the tip of his pen to the paper. There’d been a series of dots across the page as Seoho had jumped around, trying to find a pattern he didn’t even know he was searching for yet. 

So many rough drafts of affection that Geonhak will never see from Seoho, that the tragedy of it seems worth sharing, just so Geonhak knows how many times Seoho has started from scratch to make sure this goes somewhat right. Fragments of phrases, clouded emotions, tangible sensations are all that Seoho associates with Geonhak, but no real sentences he could put together have come to his mind in a way that doesn’t make his affection seem trite, like a love story he’s writing for other people to read and not for them. 

All he knows is that everything about Geonhak reminds him of the ocean, whether it’s Geonhak’s blue hair, always catching light even if there’s more darkness than there is exposure in a room, or his laugh, expansive and fulfilling, or the way he kisses Seoho and makes Seoho feel like he’s being pulled from the bottom of the ocean straight to the surface so that he can float and feel the heat of the summer sun. 

He considers the past few months, how much he’s opened up to someone he initially found unnerving, how much they still get pulled into each other’s paces no matter what misunderstandings lie in between them because they’d rather have pieces of each other even if those pieces haven’t made up the whole picture yet. 

It makes sense, Seoho thinks, that he was forced to push himself outside of his comfort zone and express the extent of his feelings in a different way for Geonhak because Geonhak is like no one else Seoho’s ever met. 

He charges his phone after sending a message to Geonhak, asking him what he’s doing, and looks through the supply closet for his old portfolio bag, which he knows has a few folders for storing smaller pieces of work. If he’s lucky, he’ll find a completely unused one, because he also remembers putting his extra art supplies into the bag when he’d taken a leave from school and never looked back, knowing his life would have to change drastically if he ever expected to return. 

When he comes back with the exact empty folder he needs, Geonhak has already replied. 

_I’m at the shop,_ Geonhak says. Seoho looks at the clock again, then back at his phone screen with furrowed eyebrows before setting the folder on the table and picking up his phone to type a message of concern back. 

_It’s late. Why aren’t you home?_

_I don’t really know,_ Geonhak replies. 

It doesn’t really matter where Geonhak is, Seoho supposes, as long as he’s not preparing to sleep. 

_How much longer will you be there?_

_An hour, probably, maybe two. Why?_

Seoho doesn’t reply to that last message, doesn't reply to Geonhak’s question. One hour is more than enough time for Seoho to take advantage of the budding courage inside of him and tell Geonhak how he feels about him, how he’s felt this whole time. 

He grabs a jacket along with his phone, tucking the folder between his arm and his side before he slips on his most comfortable sneakers and steps out into the rain. 

✧ ✧ ✧ 

“What are you doing here?” Geonhak asks, stunned to find Seoho at the entrance of his tattoo shop. “Where’s Hyejoo?” 

“With Seunghee,” Seoho says. He runs a hand through his hair, and his hand comes back wet. Parking had been tedious, and even then, he hadn’t been able to find a spot close enough to avoid getting soaked because of how heavy the rain had become. 

“Is that…” The question mark is written in the concerned lift of Geonhak’s eyebrows. 

“She stays with her for weekends, sometimes,” Seoho says. “I don’t think there’s anything wrong with that.” 

“There isn’t,” Geonhak agrees. It’s so easy with him. So comfortable. He hears everything Seoho says, everything Seoho feels even if it’s of minor importance and lays those emotions flat in his palms, just watching to see what Seoho does next. “I wanted to make sure you were okay with it, and not just letting Seunghee do as she pleased.” 

“It never made me happy, per se,” Seoho says, which has Geonhak nodding in understanding. “But it’s not something that I want to take away from Hyejoo until she’s old enough to decide how much she wants her mom around.” 

So many things that Seoho has lived with and accepted even though they don’t make him happy, but as he stares at Geonhak and Geonhak stares back at him, Seoho knows one thing, one _person_ that does. 

“You’re wet,” Geonhak says, numbly. Seoho feels numb, too, with only the loud rush of his own pulse in his ears and everything else, the cold and the wetness melting away into distant, inconsequential sensations at the sight of Geonhak, dressed in a black muscle tank with the arm holes way too revealing to be anything other than purposeful and Seoho’s favorite pair of jeans on him, black faded into charcoal colored denim that hugs his thighs like a second skin. His hair is down, blue and familiar and reassuring, and Seoho would run his hands through it just to clutch at whatever he can get of Geonhak, but he won’t because he knows his fingers are too cold. 

“You’re wearing too little,” counters Seoho. Geonhak is unshaven, and Seoho bites back the urge to kiss the roughness of that jaw, unwind that soft, unsure twist of Geonhak’s mouth. 

“Says you,” Geonhak retorts. Then he narrows his eyes, glancing at the folder tucked in Seoho’s chest and the stray droplets of water dripping from Seoho’s bangs before his brain finally catches up and makes him pull Seoho further into the shop with an urgency that kicks in belatedly. His fingers, gripping against the half damp, half soaked fabric of Seoho’s jacket, offer an anchoring weight Seoho hadn’t known he’d needed, warmth slowly seeping through to Seoho’s skin. “You’re… going to get _sick_ again. What were you thinking?” 

“It’s okay,” Seoho says, and Geonhak does an exasperated take at him. _Quiet fire,_ Seoho thinks, recognizing that hybrid emotion of anger and concern because he sees it so often in Hyejoo’s eyes whenever she notices Seoho isn’t taking care of himself. “You’ll nurse me back to health, right?” 

“That’s not an excuse to be reckless,” Geonhak says, and Seoho’s heart soars at the fact that Geonhak hasn’t said _no._ It makes him want to ask for more, for a _forever,_ even if his heart is threatening to beat so fast it’ll ricochet around his chest and then tumble out of him. “You’re so…” Geonhak’s gaze shutters, and he shakes his head. “Come here.”

“Wait,” Seoho says, even as he lets Geonhak pull him further into the shop, up the stairs onto the second floor where Geonhak’s workspace is. “I need, I want you to listen to me first.” 

“You can tell me whatever it is you want to say so badly _after_ you dry off,” Geonhak says. “I have clothes and towels, so…” It’s comforting to know how open they can still be around each other even with everything that’s been left unsaid in between them, although that might be more Geonhak’s nurturing quality taking over and making him temporarily forget about the odd distance that will keep stretching between them if Seoho doesn’t find the courage to pull Geonhak back into him. 

“Are they _clean?_ ” Seoho asks, even though he doesn’t really care, just wants to watch Geonhak’s mouth curl in distaste. 

“Yes,” Geonhak says, lips pursed like he’s holding back a more withering response. “What do you take me for?” He makes an irritated noise, when he strips Seoho out of his damp shirt and jacket and presses his palms against Seoho’s skin, realizing just how deep the chill has sunken in. “So smart and careful usually, but so impulsive.” 

With an aversion to being touched carelessly, Seoho’s first instinct is to shrink back, but this is Geonhak, and his hands are unbelievably warm, and Seoho is both too tired and too energetic to feel self-conscious. Seoho’s favorite, unattainable star shines bright and hot enough to burn on the regular, but cools down to a comforting heat in the form of fingertips against the dips of Seoho’s rib cage. 

He lets Geonhak manhandle him into sitting on a stool, then into a t-shirt, then into a thick plum colored hoodie with the words _Sapphire Sun_ printed across the chest in chartreuse, which Geonhak puts finishing touches on by tying the drawstrings into a large, floppy bow across Seoho’s neck. 

“It clashes with my hair,” Seoho says, referring to the color of the hoodie. His bloodstream must be made of liquid gratitude by now, because it’s the only emotion he can pick out of the overwhelming swirl of other conflicting ones inside of him when he stares at Geonhak’s face. 

“It’s a good thing that it’s my hoodie and not yours, then,” Geonhak says. He unwraps a clean towel from inside of a cabinet and places it on top of Seoho’s hair, rubbing a few times before holding Seoho’s hand up to the towel to make Seoho dry his hair himself. “I want it back as soon as you’re done being a dumbass running around in the rain.” 

“What if I want to keep it forever?” Seoho replies, quietly, and Geonhak’s eyes cloud over at the implications of that question. He shuts them for a moment, before opening them again to gaze directly at Seoho, with a reignited intensity that makes everything inside of Seoho lurch forward even if his body remains perfectly still. 

“Why did you come here, Seoho?” 

“To be honest, for once,” Seoho says. “Because I didn’t want to waste another second living a life where I’m holding back everything I’m feeling in the hopes that I’ll stop feeling them.” 

“Sounds like a clogged way to live,” Geonhak says, and Seoho laughs. “No wonder you laugh so squeaky.” 

“Not all of us can laugh deep enough to go straight into the floor, asshole,” Seoho says, and now Geonhak is the one to laugh, the tone of it rich and smoky enough to make Seoho feel like he’s sitting by a fireside with a hot drink in his hands and warm blankets covering his lap. Before, a distant warmth had lingered between them even if Geonhak had pulled away every time he realized Seoho’d noticed him staring, and it’d felt like Seoho had only been able to feel that heat through the thick, isolating barrier of a window as he waited outside in the snow. 

Now, physically and emotionally, it feels like Geonhak has let him in so that he’s no longer waiting in that lonely, cold snow, and Seoho’s fears and reservations have all been left behind, ice melting away into small puddles on the floor where they’ll eventually evaporate. In spite of the terror and anxiety that comes with laying his heart out like this for Geonhak to leave or take, his vulnerability shedding its heavy, protective cloak, Seoho has no regrets. 

He lets the towel Geonhak’s given him drop from his hair and hang around his neck. His hair’s still damp, but no longer dripping water all onto his clothes. 

“I tried to put it in words,” Seoho says. “How I felt about you.” 

“How you felt… about me?” Geonhak echoes. 

“That’s how I’ve treated everything,” Seoho says. “Things to be arranged, rearranged, organized until they made sense. I wanted you to fit in an easy, simple compartment in my mind that I could revisit whenever it was necessary.” 

“Not surprising,” Geonhak says, and even if his voice comes out a little choked, neither of them comment on it. 

“But no matter how many times I pressed my pen to paper, or tried to type out something comprehensible in an all encompassing manner,” Seoho says. “I couldn’t.” He recalls the frustration, the _click-clacking_ of the backspace bar as he’d hit it repeatedly, foe of a blank white document with so high a wall around it that he couldn’t even see the top. 

It’s one of the reasons he likes editing so much. No matter how rough or polished a draft is, whether it’s the first or the hundredth, there’s always some material to work with and build off of, ambiguity of an idea cleared once he’s talked something out with the author before he considers the best way to convey their intentions. Words and letters are simply pieces to manipulate and maneuver on a gameboard, strategies of approach shifting with every new objective and every new set of rules.

There’s nothing as terrifying as building something, writing something from scratch, especially when it’s his own feelings and no one else’s that he has to look far too deep into if he wants to search for answers that are supposed to clarify instead of deflect. 

Geonhak’s question is simple, logical. “Why not?” 

“Because the only way I ever thought about you,” Seoho says, and Geonhak’s looking at him a little bit like he’s magic, which only makes Seoho want to tell him that it should be the other way around, that it’s always been Geonhak who’s magic. An ocean that Seoho isn’t afraid to swim in because he knows it will never drown him. “...was whether you were here, or not. Whether I was warm, or felt chilly because I was missing the sound of a laugh that wasn’t there.” 

“Seoho,” Geonhak murmurs. 

“You told me that you miss me every second you’re awake,” Seoho says. Geonhak is standing close enough to him that he can take Geonhak’s hand in his own, so he does. With some amusement, Seoho recalls that in his dreams, Geonhak’s palms were rough, but he’s reminded that in reality, they’re soft even if they’re a little calloused in certain spots where blisters used to be, and that the metal rings Geonhak wears are the only things about him that aren’t overwhelmingly warm. “Now I’m finally brave enough to tell you that I feel the same.” 

Geonhak bites his lip, and Seoho reaches over to slide the folder on the table closer to Geonhak. The covers were already waterproof, but somewhere in the midst of Geonhak moving around and taking care of Seoho, he’d wiped down the folder, too. Geonhak uses the thumb and index finger of his free hand, the one Seoho isn’t holding, to slide down to the bottom right corner of the plastic folder, stalling as he glances at Seoho. He looks unsure as to whether he’s allowed to open it, like he’s forgotten that Seoho was the one to barge into Geonhak’s tattoo parlor at an ungodly hour, looking like a wet cat with no regard for how soaked he’d gotten in his haste to pour his heart out to Geonhak. 

“Open it,” Seoho says, quietly, and Geonhak does.

“I thought about making a colored version,” Seoho says, his own words sounding far away like he’s hearing them through layers and layers of bubble wrap. He’s more focused on the way Geonhak’s eyes glaze over and turn glossy with moisture as he’s staring down at the drawing through his eyelashes. Geonhak squeezes Seoho’s hand briefly, hard enough to make Seoho wince even though he knows it’s just Geonhak’s natural strength, before letting go and placing his hand on the folder too so that he can flatten it. “But all of your tattoos are black, with no color, and I wanted to do something that would suit you, because I wanted to adjust for your taste.” 

From where Seoho is sitting, he can’t actually see the drawing very well because light hits the sheet protector at such an angle that most of what he sees is the reflective glare on the transparency of plastic. He knows it by heart though, because he’d deliberated over the significance behind each detail from corner to corner, and what matters more to him is what’s going through Geonhak’s mind as Geonhak lets his fingers slowly, carefully drift over the plastic, contemplating. 

In the center of the illustration is the main focus, or more accurately, the two main points of Seoho’s confession. A moon and an ocean, intertwined, with no way to tell which is sinking into the other. The crest of the biggest wave has no hard lines or edges to it, fizzy white shapes whimsically rounded off into little, curious, curled fingers with circles all around to imply airborne water droplets. That wave, despite its potentially destructive nature, appears to hover delicately over the depiction of the moon, which has slightly sharper shapes inside of its borders, wobbly inkblots of texture that resemble Rorschach tests despite their inherent asymmetry. 

“Don’t blame Hyejoo, but…” Seoho says, “when I found out that you thought of me as a moon guiding you out at sea, it was really...my heart dropped, because it was so similar to how I saw us, and...” 

“All my secrets are being spilled by the people I trust,” Geonhak says, with faux sadness, and Seoho snorts. “I don’t really mind that she told you, though.” 

“Imagine how I feel every time she tells you something embarrassing about me without my permission.” 

“But it’s cute. I like learning the little things about you, too,” Geonhak counters, and Seoho flushes when Geonhak glances at him and smiles sweetly, before letting his gaze drop back to the drawing. 

“An ocean in the moon, huh?” Geonhak remarks, faintly, and Seoho nods. “It’s very… you, but it’s also me.” 

Geonhak gets it. He gets it, and that makes the courage, desperation, and affection in Seoho light up like fireworks. “Yeah,” Seoho says. 

Geonhak is not looking at him, still staring at the drawing, eyes darting every few seconds to take in the other aspects of the illustration, not as attention catching but meaningful in their own right. 

There are other details in the illustration Seoho isn’t sure whether Geonhak has noticed. A sun, tucked near the bottom left, becomes a hybrid between a star and an jewel if you turn it to a different angle, and it’s meant to represent where Seoho met the real Geonhak for the first time, right here at Geonhak’s tattoo shop. A fairy sits on the top of the moon, with her hand outstretched towards the wave like she thinks it’ll extend a hand back. If Geonhak looks _really_ close, he’ll see the frog hairbands on the fairy’s hair and know exactly who she’s supposed to be if it wasn’t obvious already. 

“Thank you,” Geonhak says. He’s still looking. “This is…” He doesn’t finish his sentence, but Seoho thinks he understands. 

“Have I ever told you about my love for the ocean?” 

“I know you like it,” Geonhak says. The tips of his ears burn a dull red. “You mentioned it a few times.” 

“When I was in college, I used to take trips to the beach all the time,” Seoho says. He recalls, with some fuzziness, memories of parking on the side of the highway in order to get access to quiet beaches that couldn’t be accessed any other way. The wind would run its fingers through his hair ruthlessly every time he got out of his car and didn’t have a baseball cap on, but he hadn’t really cared, had cared more about how soon he’d be able to smell the salt in the wind from the sea. Sand between his toes in his sandals, or in the heels of his Converse sneakers depending on what shoes he was wearing that day. 

“Really?”

Seoho nods. “The ocean’s breathtaking in so many ways,” he says. “Wide and expansive and vast. A whole world on the water that few humans will ever know, with so much mystery under the surface.” He looks up at Geonhak, and realizes that Geonhak has been staring at him for a while, which surprisingly makes Seoho more nervous than Geonhak looking at his drawing. It’s about time Seoho stops paying so much attention to the faces he shows Geonhak because it’s futile to hide them when Geonhak knows what’s underneath already. “Despite its danger, it’s peaceful. It calmed me whenever I got to see it.” 

“That’s a pretty way to talk about it,” Geonhak says. “I guess you don’t go much these days…?” 

“No.” Seoho shakes his head. “I have responsibilities and obligations now, and it feels silly to waste time driving to the beach simply because I always have so many things I could be catching up on.” 

“It’s not silly to use time like that,” Geonhak says. “What’s the point in living life if you can’t enjoy the things you really love and worry about being productive every waking moment?” 

“That’s true,” Seoho says, tone of voice wry. “I’ve known that since I was twenty two, high strung and overachieving and exhausted, and yet I haven’t learned any lessons, only gotten worse.” 

“You’ve got a whole lifetime ahead of you to change your bad habits,” Geonhak says. “Plenty of opportunities for beach trip escapades. Don’t you think?” _With me,_ the brightness of his eyes says. 

“Yes,” Seoho replies. “Everything the ocean makes me feel, though...you do the same, for me. I realized that when we were feeling awkward with each other, that even if we weren’t talking to each other the way we used to, my heart still felt grounded every time you were in my vision even if I wasn’t sure what I would find by sticking my hand underneath the waves.” 

“I was drawn to you,” Geonhak says. “Even when I was afraid or hurt or confused about where I stood with you, I was drawn to you.”

“Like the tide of the moon on the ocean,” Seoho says. “Sometimes high, sometimes low depending on which faces we’re showing each other and what we’re doing in our own time.” 

“Yeah?” Geonhak’s smiling a little, soft and shy, and Seoho really, _really_ loves him. “What’s the tide right now?” 

“High, because my heart keeps getting pulled in the direction of yours,” Seoho says. There’s one flaw in this comparison for them, and it’s that the ocean and the moon never touch each other any way other than figuratively, for the moon can see its reflection in the surface of the waves, and the ocean can find various versions of itself in the texture of the moon even if they’re different forms and not anything like the ocean has ever seen before. “Although that’s more of a default—” 

And then Geonhak is pulling Seoho into his lap with a possessive palm against the curve of Seoho’s ass, frothy waves and seafoam colliding with the moonlight that guides him in the darkness. Seoho has to steady himself by putting his hands on Geonhak’s chest, and Geonhak leans in close enough that their noses brush against each other. “Seoho, do you mean it? All of this, what you just said to me?”

Seoho hopes that Geonhak can tell from the way Seoho kisses him, from the way Seoho surges forward to continue chasing the heat of Geonhak’s mouth even after Geonhak pulls away for air, that the answer to that question has always been unmistakably, undeniably _yes._

“I never told you how much I cared,” Seoho says, breathlessly, while Geonhak pulls the towel off of his neck and sucks persistent marks into his skin, “because admitting any fraction of my feelings would have drowned both of us.” 

Geonhak makes a strangled noise that sounds like both a laugh and a sniffle. Hearing it doesn’t make it particularly easy to interpret what it means on Seoho’s end, but with Geonhak’s mouth still pressed lightly against his neck, Seoho’s body understands for him even if he can’t verbalize it. “And we’re not drowning now?” Geonhak asks. 

“I know how to swim, now, that’s the difference,” Seoho says. His hands are no longer cold, all warmed up, so he brushes Geonhak’s bangs out of his face in a self indulgent gesture of affection as Geonhak watches him. Fondness is written all over Geonhak’s face, and it makes Seoho feel so brave, so powerful. “And I can handle the consequences of being tossed underneath the waves.” 

✧ ✧ ✧ 

It suddenly strikes Seoho, after he’s taken Geonhak home and straddled him, that it is the first time Geonhak has ever been in his bedroom, in his bed. 

Geonhak looks perfect like this, pliant and accommodating underneath Seoho. Seoho had been too impatient to move his comforters before he was pushing Geonhak down onto them, and observing Geonhak now, he thinks it was a good call even if it was unintentional because Geonhak, nestled in the softness of Seoho’s gunmetal colored sheets, with his ocean kissed hair and monochromatic, obsidian ink scattered across his pale skin, looks like a celestial body Seoho craves to be set alight by over and over again. The sight of him is a masterpiece divine enough to invoke worship in the most agnostic of humans, yet sinful in how he drives Seoho to ardent obsession, and Seoho will never share this side of Geonhak with the world because it’s all his. 

Geonhak is waiting patiently for Seoho to take care of him, even if his eyes drop to half mast at the sight of Seoho pulling the t-shirt Geonhak had given him earlier up and over his head, and his fingers dig hard enough into Seoho’s hip that Seoho thinks he might find bruises on the skin there later, in the shapes of Geonhak’s fingertips. 

“I thought you just wanted me out of your system, at first,” Geonhak says. 

“Is that how you see yourself?” Seoho asks, before he laughs. “From the moment I first saw you I knew I wouldn’t be able to get you out of my system.” 

Geonhak licks his lips, thinking. Seoho doesn’t particularly want to think right now, but he’ll be a little more patient just for Geonhak since it seems like Geonhak has something to say. 

“There’s no way I would have known that, because you don’t know how you…” Geonhak trails off for a bit, and he squirms when Seoho snaps the waistband of his underwear in warning for Geonhak to speak faster. “I could tell that you were fond of me, and that you liked having me around, but I never knew if you wanted to keep me.” 

“You know how I feel now, though, right?” Seoho drags his nails lightly down Geonhak’s bicep, tattoo of the swallow and its graceful tail now fully visible. “I’ll remind you how much I want to keep you, if you stop talking.” 

Geonhak’s ears redden immediately, all the way down to right above his earlobes. “You’re so…” 

“Yeah?” Seoho tilts his head, pretending to be oblivious. “What were you saying?”

“You’re insufferable,” Geonhak says. His breaths are shallow as he watches Seoho. “But also a little irresistible.”

“Only a little?” Seoho echoes. “That’s offensive.”

“Don’t be like that,” Geonhak whines, and he tugs at Seoho’s hand until Seoho relents and lets their fingers intertwine momentarily. “I love you.” He says it so casually, but Seoho can tell it’s genuine just from the way Geonhak’s looking at him, studying Seoho’s facial features like he’s going to be enlightened if he catches a detail that somehow makes him even more knowledgeable in how Seoho works as a person. 

Seoho isn’t sure if he’s ever going to get used to this, if he’s going to let himself. Some things seem too good to be true, Geonhak included, and before Seoho can freak himself out anymore over the significance of three words, he’s leaving wet kisses down Geonhak’s sternum, in between his pecs, all the way until he reaches the soft trail of hair that slips underneath Geonhak’s briefs.

“Ocean currents,” Seoho remarks, suddenly, while he positions Geonhak in such a way so that he can get more comfortable in between Geonhak’s thighs. He’d paid attention the first time even if he hadn’t said it out loud, and now that he’s taking his time with Geonhak it’s even more noticeable how pretty the barely-there spirals of fine body hair all over Geonhak’s body are, making his skin look in motion even when he’s perfectly still and melting underneath Seoho’s touch. “Your body hair. Another way you remind me of the ocean.” 

Geonhak exhales shakily. He looks a little dazed, like he can’t focus on anything except the hot air of Seoho breathing near his skin, and Seoho likes that look on him. “What?” 

“It means I love you, too,” Seoho says, mildly. Then he’s pulling Geonhak’s briefs down with a sharp, sudden movement and taking Geonhak into his mouth, and at that point Geonhak is too far gone to talk at all. 

✧ ✧ ✧ 

Seoho doesn’t eat breakfast, usually, considering he has no appetite when he’s tired and not fully awake, just drinks his usual round of coffee. Hyejoo doesn’t say anything because she knows he’s stubborn and they’re usually always looking to cut down on time so that they’re not late getting her out the door for school or her extracurriculars. 

While he waits for his coffee to finish brewing, Seoho checks the refrigerator to see what they have in case Geonhak is hungry whenever he gets out of bed. Out of _Seoho’s_ bed, Seoho remembers, and that detail, as inconsequential as it is, makes him smile to himself. He needs to pick up more milk, since it seems like he might… be seeing Geonhak a lot more often from now on and that probably means more hot chocolate being made, but Seoho doesn’t linger on that thought for too long because he doesn’t want to foolishly claim more happiness than he’s been allotted. 

Geonhak had clung to Seoho, just a bit, when Seoho was trying to get out of bed without disturbing him from his sleep, and he’d only let go once Seoho had brushed his hair away from his forehead and given him a kiss on the skin there. By now, Geonhak should have fallen back asleep, and Seoho considers the day ahead of him, whether it’d be too optimistic to hope for more time with Geonhak even though he’s sure he’d be better off catching up on work or taking some personal time to reorganize the house. He has no obligations schedule wise other than picking Hyejoo up, and that’s probably going to be around noon or afterwards, since that’s the pattern he’s noticed from previous visits.

There is an odd sense of worry pulling at him that he can’t really define. Maybe it’s the uncertainty that comes with a new relationship, expectations shifting even as he’s trying to maintain the past normal and reconcile it with changes that he wants to stay gradual. 

He realizes he’s left his phone on the dresser in his bedroom, but the thought is interrupted before he can decide whether to go and retrieve it. 

“Shouldn’t you be eating something first?” 

Seoho startles, turning to look at Geonhak, who has somehow managed to make his way into the kitchen without Seoho noticing or hearing anything. Geonhak is scratching at his bare stomach, only wearing a pair of Seoho’s sweatpants that Seoho had given him last night before they went to bed. “Before you drink your coffee, I mean,” he adds, and Seoho smiles at him. 

“I don’t usually eat breakfast,” Seoho explains. Geonhak blinks at him, before he realizes that Seoho’s being completely serious. 

“That wasn’t a one time thing?” 

“It’s an all the time thing,” Seoho says, and Geonhak scrunches his nose in disapproval. “I make Hyejoo eat breakfast, don’t worry.” 

“I know you take care of Hyejoo,” Geonhak says. “The problem is that you don’t apply the same treatment to yourself.” Seoho sneezes, horribly timed, and Geonhak’s expression splits between equal parts concern and amusement. “Did you get sick from the rain?” 

“No,” Seoho says. The weird thing about realizing someone reciprocates your feelings, he thinks, is that you subsequently realize you’re allowed to ask to be touched and ask for attention simply because you want it. He tucks his arms closer to himself, even then. “Just a little morning chill.” 

“No more chill, now that I’m here,” Geonhak says. He wraps his arms around Seoho, surrounding Seoho with warmth and skin, nuzzling into Seoho’s ear and hair. “Fluffy.”

Later, Geonhak stares at Seoho from above the brim of the sky blue mug of hot chocolate Seoho makes for him, having given up on getting Seoho to eat anything. Seoho had, however, given him free reign over the kitchen to make himself whatever he wanted for breakfast, save for the pudding in the refrigerator that’s reserved for Hyejoo. While Geonhak had popped two slices of bread from the freezer in the toaster and timidly dug through the depths of Seoho’s cold ingredients to see what he could make a sandwich with, Seoho had sat down with his legs crossed at the long bench side of the dining table and scrolled through his phone. 

“I wanted to stare at your sleeping face longer,” Geonhak says, and Seoho glances up at him. There’s a red mark on Geonhak’s neck, courtesy of Seoho, and it’s diffusing pink across one of the petals of his tattoo. A colored tattoo wouldn’t look half bad on Geonhak at all, even if it’d be wildly unbalanced by every other tattoo on him being black. “But that’s probably too much to ask for considering how early you wake up and get out of bed.”

“I hadn’t expected you to get up so early,” Seoho says. “I was surprised.” 

“I wake up early to exercise, usually,” Geonhak says, and Seoho makes a noise filled with attitude, that’s meant to say _of course_ without him actually uttering the words. “You don’t get to talk. You workout too.”

“Out of necessity,” Seoho says mildly. “Not out of some odd _adoration_ for moving.” 

“Exercising is healthy,” Geonhak says. “You can never do too much of it, because it literally helps prevent so many—”

“Yeah, yeah,” Seoho says, interrupting Geonhak, who extends his foot to nudge at Seoho’s calf in irritation at being cut off. Seoho ignores the overwhelming wave of indescribable emotions that threatens to bowl him over, and doesn’t think about how much he likes this, how much he likes the fact that the stilted, uncomfortable distance between them has shattered into a million pieces, replaced with an intimacy Seoho doesn’t think he’s ever had with anyone else. “Drink the rest of your hot chocolate, Geonhak.”

Geonhak glares at him, but dutifully drinks the rest of his hot chocolate in small, occasional sips. Seoho considers asking him what his plans for the day are, to see if potentially they could… spend it together, but an alert comes in on his phone, the one that’s specific to texts from Hyejoo. Seoho only has customized sounds for her because he doesn’t always want to look at his phone unless he knows it’s something important, and he wants to make sure he never misses anything from her especially if it’s urgent. 

_Can you come get me?_ the text says. The weird cloud of worry from earlier was probably parental instinct, and now it returns in full force at the lack of emojis in her message and also the unusually early request to be picked up. He was expecting her to beckon him at noon, earliest, and the fact that she wants to come home more than three hours early has alarm bells going off in his head. 

“I’m going to go pick Hyejoo up,” Seoho says, standing up, and Geonhak puts down his mug on the table, staying in his seat. 

His tone is careful as he asks, slowly, “Do you want me to come with you?” 

“You don’t need to,” Seoho says. He’s not sure what to expect when he gets there, and he doesn't want to put Geonhak in any uncomfortable situations, especially when Seoho has never needed emotional backup dealing with Seunghee, just an extra layer of apprehension on his end to keep him on his toes. 

Geonhak sucks his lower lip in between his teeth, and Seoho senses discomfort starting to roll off of him in quiet waves. “What’s wrong?” he asks Geonhak. 

“Why don’t you want me to come with you?” Geonhak asks. “Is it because…”

Seoho frowns, once he picks up on what’s bothering Geonhak. He’d assumed that his feelings had been clear after yesterday evening’s conversation, but then he remembers that Geonhak has probably been promised things over and over again only to lose them in the end. “Because I don’t want Seunghee to know I’m dating you, you mean?” 

Geonhak makes a noise Seoho can only describe as uneasy. 

“I want to keep you to myself because I’m possessive,” Seoho says, speaking slower than normal so that Geonhak has time to hear every single word, “not because I’m ashamed. You do realize that, right?” 

“Oh,” Geonhak says. He looks down, and his ears flush pink. 

“I think something’s wrong too because she usually doesn’t ask to be picked up this early,” Seoho says. He reaches over to lightly wiggle Geonhak’s ear, and Geonhak swats at his hand, but at least he’s smiling, and that’s a reassurance that Seoho has somewhat mitigated Geonhak’s insecurity regarding this. “I don’t want to waste your time in case I have to deal with something.” 

“Okay,” Geonhak agrees. 

“I’d much rather you wait here for me, so that we can talk to Hyejoo when I bring her home and maybe...if it’s not too greedy of me to suggest, spend some more time together,” Seoho says. He can feel his cheeks grow hot as he realizes he hasn’t thought his words out yet, but Geonhak’s staring at him with something akin to puppy eyes. “You don’t have to, because I’m sure you’re busy—“

“Would that be okay?” Geonhak asks. “For me to stay?” 

“Why wouldn’t it be?” Seoho asks. 

“I wasn’t sure if you wanted Hyejoo to…” 

“Not to freak you out or anything,” Seoho says, “But I joked with her once that she seemed to like you so much that she wanted you to be her dad instead of me, and she told me she wanted you as a dad, _too_ , not instead.” 

“Really?” Still sitting, Geonhak loops his arm behind Seoho’s waist to pull him in, parting his knees so that there’s space for Seoho to stand in between his legs. With his hands clasped together, Seoho wraps his arms around Geonhak’s neck as Geonhak presses his face into Seoho’s shirt and stares up at him, bright and happy. 

“I keep thinking I’m going to wake up and this will have all been a dream, because I don’t have a lot of faith in dreams coming true,” Geonhak says. “But you keep raising my expectations.” 

Seoho considers telling him that he feels the same way, that Geonhak makes it possible for Seoho to take risks he would have never even considered before. Instead, he just hugs Geonhak closer, before he’s letting go and pulling away to get dressed so that he can go pick Hyejoo up. 

When Seoho arrives in front of Seunghee’s apartment complex and gets out of the car, it’s clear that there _is_ something wrong. He watches Seunghee lead Hyejoo out, Hyejoo walking a few steps in front of her mom instead of next to her, and Seunghee tries to ruffle Hyejoo’s hair when they’re supposed to say goodbye but Hyejoo barely acknowledges it, making a beeline for Seoho. 

“I upset her,” Seunghee says quietly as she hands over Hyejoo’s backpack, and Hyejoo grabs a fistful of Seoho’s shirt. Hyejoo’s backpack feels light as a feather in his grip, while a much heavier weight drops in Seoho’s stomach. 

“What happened?” he asks Hyejoo, squatting down, but she refuses to look at him and just holds on tighter to his shirt. 

He looks to Seunghee then, for answers. “What happened? Did you say something to her?” 

“Nothing bad,” Seunghee says. “I just asked her what she thought about...what I asked you last time.”

“Nothing bad—” Seoho sighs, cutting himself off. Just when he’s raised his expectations for people, there’s always something waiting around the corner to remind him that he should lower them again. “Wasn’t it clear I wasn’t okay with that when we last met up?”

“I didn’t think it would make her like that,” Seunghee says. 

“Because you don’t know her,” Seoho says, and Seunghee folds her arm across her chest, defensive. “You can’t just drop in every few weeks, buy her a new shiny thing and—” he’s about to continue, but then he feels Hyejoo start to shake and he realizes belatedly that he’s never raised his voice or lost his temper in front of her before, not like this. “I’m not going to talk about this right now.” 

“I’m sorry.” 

_Aren’t you tired of saying that to me?_ he thinks, and hopes that she hears it, sees it in his face because he’s too frustrated to air out grievances with her when Hyejoo’s emotions are already so volatile. 

“You’re always looking for more,” Seoho says quietly. That’s the biggest difference between them. As soon as Seunghee regains some semblance of control in her life, she wants to expand on it, while Seoho does his best to cherish and manage what successes he has in his own. How did Seunghee have the confidence to think she was going to be able to manage Hyejoo on top of a new marriage and stepson when she barely understands who Hyejoo is? “Take care of what you have first, before you end up biting more than what you can chew. That’s the only advice I have for you.”

Hyejoo is quiet as Seoho buckles her into the backseat, after he’s finished texting Geonhak a bunch of rain cloud emojis and a brief message about what’s happened. “Do you want to talk about it?” 

She finally lets go of his shirt when he uncurls each of her fingers and sets her hand on her lap. He’d been worried that she was upset with him, too, but it doesn’t seem that way even if there’s no way to tell yet. 

Seunghee had been purposely vague in what she’d said to Hyejoo because she knew Seoho wouldn’t have forgiven her once he heard the details, and Seoho doesn’t think he’ll contact her for a while even though he’d told her they would talk privately later. It seems like he’s talking to a wall sometimes, except the wall has a mind of its own and moves its boundaries depending on its mood that day and whatever momentary whim crosses its borders. 

“No,” Hyejoo answers. After Seoho has gotten behind the steering wheel and turned on the car engine, she asks, “Is there still pudding at home?” 

“Yes,” Seoho replies, and she sniffles, a little, like that makes things marginally better, then doesn’t say anything else the whole way home. 

It’s when they’re back home and inside, in the foyer, that Hyejoo finally breaks. 

Geonhak is there to greet them when Seoho unlocks the door, stepping out into the living room in a pair of slippers that Seoho had given him so his feet weren’t cold. He’s put on a clean sweater that belongs to Seoho, too, his wider frame filling it out more than Seoho’s torso does, especially at the shoulders. 

“Geonhak?” says Hyejoo, and she sounds unsure, cautious. Geonhak looks like he doesn’t know whether he should smile at her, but his mouth is small enough that it doesn’t make much of a difference either way. “Why is…” She turns to look at Seoho, eyes wide. 

“You don’t get to leave me,” she finally settles on, latching onto Seoho’s arm and clawing at his shirt in a way that means she wants him to pay attention to her. Seoho always is, and he sits her down on the couch across from him. Her lower lip is trembling, and Seoho feels like crying, too, to see her so shaken up. 

“Hyejoo, I would never,” Seoho says, and she crawls into his lap, hiccuping and sniffling as the tears start to fall from her eyes. She’s crying so much lately, grief and anxiety spilling out of her because she can’t handle it alone anymore, and all Seoho can do to curb the guilt is let her sob into his shirt until he can feel the dampness of her tears seeping through the fabric. He pets at her hair, smoothing back flyaways. It’s only then that she starts to calm down, reassured by a familiar gesture from Seoho and the sense that she’s not being left behind. “I am not leaving you. I promise.” 

Geonhak quietly sits down on the other end of the couch, watching them. 

“So why did Mom ask if I wanted to live with her and her husband and his son?” Hyejoo asks, wiping at her eyes.

Seoho rolls his lower lip inwards. “I think because she feels bad she hasn’t been taking care of you ever since she and I separated. She probably wants to make it up to you because she loves you very much, and she might have thought that you would like the idea even if I didn’t.” When he looks over, Geonhak is staring at a spot on the floor, but his eyes are solemn as he listens attentively to every word Seoho is saying. “She’d already talked to me about it and I was...waiting to discuss it with you, but I assumed that she wouldn’t scare you by directly asking you.” 

“Is that why she called the other time?” Hyejoo asks. “When I was on the playground?” 

“Yeah,” Seoho says, figuring it’s unnecessary to explain that Seunghee had only sprung the question on him after ambushing him in person, but he quickly forgets about that dilemma when Hyejoo frowns at him, remembering something else about what he’s said. 

“Discuss with me?” she says. “About what?” 

“Whether you’re content staying with me,” Seoho says. Hyejoo’s eyebrows raise, and she gets that upset look in her eyes again. “I never get to take you out on fun outings on the weekends, and we don’t get to have nice vacations. Sometimes I can’t make it to your school events, and you’re always having to do so many things in a rush because there’s only me to take care of you.” 

“I don’t care about any of those things,” Hyejoo says as soon as he’s finished talking, before she’s even had time to properly think, and Seoho stares at her, eyes wide. “I don’t care about any of that as long as I have you.” 

“Chipmunk,” Seoho says, a little awestruck. 

“I like spending time with Mom, but she’s not…” Hyejoo hiccups again, but it doesn’t look like she’s going to cry. She maneuvers herself so that she’s sitting with her back against his chest, and then she grabs his hand, trying to match her fingers to his and inevitably coming up short. “She’s not you. You’re the one who takes care of me when I’m sick. You help me with my homework even when you’re tired, and you cook apples for me, and you always give me the part of the fish that has no bones in it.” 

It’s a different sort of ache, now, that Seoho feels in his chest. 

“Half your reasons are food related. So you wouldn’t love me if I didn’t cook apples for you or gave you pieces of fish with bones in them?” Seoho jokes, and Hyejoo headbutts him even though she can’t see where she’s aiming. Seoho manages to lean far back enough that the majority of her attack doesn’t make an impact, and he ends up getting more of a brushing of hair right below his chin. 

“You know that’s not what I mean,” Hyejoo says, huffing in frustration before she realizes she has someone on her side for backup. “Geonhak, fight Daddy for me.” 

Seoho expects Geonhak to pinch him in the leg, or tackle him after moving Hyejoo somewhere safe, but Geonhak just reaches over to hold both of their hands in his palm tenderly. 

“Sorry Hyejoo,” he says, and that has Hyejoo tilting her head to watch him carefully, because it’s unusual for him to reject any of her requests even if they’re mischievous ones. “I love your dad too much to fight him.” 

“That’s cheesy,” Hyejoo says, the same time Seoho’s heart drops onto the floor and bounces somewhere into the corner of the room behind the large cupboard where they store the plates and bowls. “Did you make Daddy okonomiyaki again, while I was visiting my mom?” 

That easy, uncomplicated acceptance is… Seoho doesn’t know whether she’s realized, yet, or it’s that she’s still too rattled from her mom’s unexpected proposal that she’s desensitized to everything else going on around her right now. 

“No, not this time,” Geonhak says. 

“But you’re smiling at each other,” Hyejoo points out. “Does that mean you made up?” 

“I think so,” Geonhak says. He lets both of their hands slide out from between his thumb and four other fingers, but not before he squeezes Seoho’s pinky. He looks so _pleased_ , even if the corners of that excitement are tinged with uneasiness, and upon noticing it, Seoho reaches out to grab Geonhak’s hand to anchor him. 

“Yes,” Seoho says, and he watches the uneasiness fade out of Geonhak’s face, powering up to all parts happiness and no hesitation at all. “Do you remember when you told me that you wanted Geonhak to stay forever?” 

Hyejoo nods, and Seoho continues with, “I wanted that, too.” 

Her eyes go wide and sparkly at the admission he never properly gave her, and she immediately turns to Geonhak. “Did you agree?! Geonhak? Does you being here mean that you’re—” 

“Yeah,” Geonhak says. “I’ll probably be crashing on your couch a lot. You okay with that?” 

“Why would you do that when you can just sleep in Daddy’s bed?” Hyejoo asks matter-of-factly, and that has both of them spluttering. “What? I’ve seen you kissing him before.” 

“Do you want to try okonomiyaki today then?” Geonhak asks to distract her, while Seoho reels from what she’s just said, almost laughing in disbelief at how much he’s tiptoed around this only for Hyejoo to smash that meticulousness into pieces. 

Seoho had thought his heart was full this morning, with Geonhak’s rings stored neatly on top of his dresser and a sleepy, clingy Geonhak crawling out of bed just to worry about him drinking coffee on an empty stomach, but now it’s even more full, spilling over the brim and flooding his whole body with a warmth that makes his vision start to swim in a different sort of ocean. The selflessness of sacrifice has always been an instinct rather than a thought out gesture for Seoho when it comes to Hyejoo, and he’d never cared about what results it would bring him in the end, just that Hyejoo never felt alone in the world that felt harder and harder to navigate the older Seoho got. That meant pushing away the things and people he wanted because he couldn’t afford to be greedy, and searching for understanding had seemed futile when it required spare time and energy Seoho never felt like he could afford. 

With the two people he loves most in the world next to him, though, Seoho thinks he’s gotten more than he’s ever dared to hope for, affection tumbling out of him and pouring into the space between him and Hyejoo and Geonhak, linking them all together. 

“Will you stay the whole day, and then make it for dinner?” Hyejoo asks Geonhak, as she falls back against Seoho’s chest. “Please?” 

“Yeah,” Geonhak says, with the biggest smile Seoho has ever seen on him. Seoho is going to kiss that smile later, maybe in the kitchen, so that Hyejoo doesn’t make grossed out noises at them. “I think I will.” 

☽ ☽ ☽

“You know what Hyejoo told me once?” Geonhak asks Seoho, in the evening, as he ambushes Seoho in a backhug. Hyejoo is washing her hair so they have a few minutes to themselves, and Geonhak’s managed to lure Seoho outside into the backyard, where they’re watching the sunset. The sky is a watercolor painting of teal and fuschia and lavender, cotton candy clouds a wet wash of color invaded by grains of neon salt. 

“What?”

“That you’re not just a dad to her,” Geonhak says. “But her hero, too.”

“I’m already emotional enough today,” Seoho says, sighing, and Geonhak chuckles. “Can you pace out the sweet stuff over a year or something?” 

“Do you remember which one of us confessed after getting soaked in the pouring rain with a tattoo design composed of elements representing our love for each other?” Geonhak teases. “It wasn’t me.”

“I have zero memory of doing that,” Seoho says, but Geonhak is nuzzling at him, unconcerned with Seoho’s attempts at denial. 

“You’re my hero, too,” Geonhak says. “Not in the conventional sense, maybe, but your heart is so good.” 

“Descriptive,” Seoho says, and Geonhak pinches him. “You can’t hug me and then inflict _pain_ on me, that’s unfair.” 

“You’re being mean,” Geonhak says. “And that’s the only way I can describe it.” 

“Your heart’s better,” Seoho says easily, and Geonhak presses closer to him. So clingy, so warm. “If I had to compare you to something, I’d say that you’re my kelp.” 

“What?” Geonhak laughs. “Am I food to you?” 

“Well…” Seoho says, voice turning pensive as he considers making an indecent joke. He hadn’t thought of it that way, but it’s a good opportunity to make Geonhak squirm. “Maybe a snack. I don’t know about the nutritional value of your—” 

“I don’t wanna hear it,” Geonhak says, tickling Seoho in retribution when Seoho laughs at his embarrassment. “Pervert.” 

“This is what you signed up for,” Seoho says. He traps Geonhak’s hands in his, and turns around so that he’s facing Geonhak. “Back out while you still have time, before your roots settle into me and you have nowhere to escape.” 

“The soil here is pretty good, so I think I’ll stay,” Geonhak says, eyes curving sweetly into moon-like crescents, and Seoho leans in to slot their mouths together in a kiss, letting ocean waves crash into him as he chases the sensation of sea salt on his skin. 

☽ ☽ ☽

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading! 
> 
> id love to have something Deep or smart in this ending note but i can only say that i put an unbelievable amt of heart into this fic and i hope that you enjoyed reading it at least a fraction as much i enjoyed (torturing myself) writing it. 
> 
> **pls consider leaving a comment here if you liked this! 80,000+ words is too long of a conversation to have with myself so please talk to me :')**


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